Marigold of Misty Hollow
by ElouiseBates
Summary: Marigold Lesley is fifteen years old and sent to stay in pokey old Blair Water with Aunt Edna. What new friends and adventures will she find there? Sequel blending Magic for Marigold and the Emily novels.
1. Reintroducing Marigold

The Lesley clan of Harmony Harbor was having a family conclave at Cloud of Spruce. Marigold Lesley, the youngest of the family, was perfectly furious because she was not allowed to attend.

"It's ridiculous," she muttered sulkily to her grey cat Hermes. She was perched on the worn sandstone step at the front door of Cloud of Spruce, scowling out at the red roads leading to Harmony Harbor. Her face was as irate as a sweet, flower-like face ever _can_ be. "I'm fifteen years old now. Surely that's old enough to be part of the family gatherings! Why should I be treated like a child? And in my own home! After all, Old Grandmother did tell me that Cloud of Spruce was to be _mine._ They wouldn't like it very much if I suddenly threw them all out of _my_ house."

For a moment Marigold amused herself by imagining the reactions of all her family members if she suddenly marched in there and made them leave. She could see Grandmother's horrified face…Mother's piteous shock…Salome's indignation…Aunt Marigold's surprise…and Uncle Klon's laughter. Oh yes, Uncle Klon would laugh all right.

Marigold shook her head. Even imaginary revenges on her family couldn't satisfy her right now. Her grievances were too great. She stood up with a sigh, shook her yellow skirt out—yellow was her latest favorite color, ever since Uncle Klon told her she looked like her namesake flower in it—and wandered down to the gate, looking wistfully at the house next door. If Budge hadn't gone to Charlottetown with Tad Austin to visit Tad's grandmother for the week she would have gone over and poured out her woes to him—although, had she thought about it, she did much more listening than speaking to Budge these days. Still, it would have been a comfort to have her only friend around. She leaned on the gate and sighed disconsolately.

* * *

Had Marigold known it, the only reason she was not part of this meeting was because she was the subject of it. Her family had been worried about her for quite a while, and Grandmother finally had decided to discuss it with Aunt Marigold, who was still a M.D. first and foremost, despite fifteen years of marriage to Horace "Klondike" Lesley.

Marigold had had several growth spurts that summer and never really regained her strength. She'd spent most of her time drooping around Cloud of Spruce, or letting Budge dictate her every move. Her spirits had dropped, and the unutterable charm and magic she'd always had seemed to vanish. Even Grandmother had started to worry when Marigold snapped at Lorraine one morning. Marigold _never_ spoke sharply to her mother.

Something needed to be done, and Aunt Marigold thought she had just the solution.

* * *

Marigold couldn't believe her ears when Lorraine told her the results of the conclave. "I'm being sent _where?_"

"Blair Water, dear," Lorraine answered patiently. She was desolate at losing her daughter for a whole year, but she knew it was for the best and she was determined to put a good face on the matter. "Aunt Marigold's own aunt, Edna Babcock, lives there with her daughter Miranda, and they've said they'd be happy to have you stay with them this year. Grandmother knows the Babcocks quite well, and has agreed to let you go."

"A whole year?" Marigold asked piteously. "But _why_?"

"Because you need to go someplace to regain your strength, dear," explained Lorraine. "This summer hasn't been a good one for you, and Aunt Marigold thinks you need a complete change of scenery and pace to recover your strength." _And spirits_, she could have added, but didn't.

"But why can't I go to Queen's?" asked Marigold. "That's something completely different." She had passed her Entrance Exam that June, but Grandmother had decreed that she was not to go, as no Lesley woman had ever had to work for her living. "Gwennie will be there, you know."

Personally, Lorraine would have been proud to see Marigold attend Queen's, but Aunt Marigold had said no. "Aunt Marigold doesn't think you're strong enough for Queen's, dearest. She's afraid you'll have a breakdown, and then it will take you twice as long to recover and then try again. No, you need someplace quiet and peaceful, with nothing to worry you."

"Blair Water's certainly that," muttered Marigold sulkily. "Nothing ever happens there."

"Really Marigold, I do not appreciate you using that tone with me," said Lorraine, finally reaching the end of her patience. She rose from her daughter's bed. "You are going to Blair Water whether you want to or not, but I can assure you it will be a much more pleasant year if you go with a good attitude."

Marigold felt slightly ashamed of herself. She sprang up and impulsively flung her arms around Lorraine. "I'm sorry, Mums. I know you all are just trying to do what's best for me. But it _is_ hard to be exiled from one's home for a whole year."

Lorraine hid a smile at Marigold's dramatic tone. She kissed her daughter's forehead. "Tell you what, dear. You'll need some new things to take to Blair Water. Why don't we see if Uncle Klon can drive us into the village so we can go shopping, just you and me."

"No Grandmother?" asked Marigold, her eyes lighting up. Grandmother never let her get the clothes she really wanted.

"No Grandmother," answered Lorraine, glad to see some interest return to Marigold's face.

They went down the stairs together and out to the car. "Mother," whispered Marigold. "May I get _pajamas?_"

Lorraine looked doubtful for a moment, then laughed. "As long as Grandmother doesn't find out. And maybe we can get you a new bathing suit, too."

"Oh!" said Marigold, leaning back in her seat with clasped hands. Maybe this trip to Blair Water wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

Three days later, sitting in her small bedroom at Misty Hollow, Marigold wasn't so sure. Uncle Klon had no sooner left her there than she was overwhelmed with a great wave of homesickness. She wanted desperately to go back to Cloud of Spruce. When she thought that she was going to be at Misty Hollow for an entire year, it seemed almost too much to bear.

She already hated everything about it. Misty Hollow was an old house nestled in a little dell, surrounded by pine trees and an ancient stone fence. There was no orchard here, but a delightful old-fashioned garden filled almost the entire backyard, with a little brook running right through one corner. The house itself was of weathered grey boards, large and comfortable and very welcoming. Marigold's bedroom looked right out over the garden. It was small but quaint: white walls with yellow trim, ruffled yellow curtains, a yellow-and-white quilt on the high, old-fashioned bed, and a round yellow rag rug on the polished hardwood floor. Marigold stood up and walked over to the round mirror over her chest of drawers. The polished glass showed a scowling visage back at her.

"I wish it had all been ugly," she muttered rebelliously. "I wish Cousin Mira and Aunt Edna were hideous old hags who were mean and hateful and who lived in a broken-down old shack. _Then_ they wouldn't have sent me here. I could have gone home with Uncle Klon…and slept in my own little room…and seen Budge…oh, oh, oh!" She flung herself down on the bed and bust into tears.

She'd been sobbing for several minutes when she heard a cheery whistle right outside her open window. Feeling slightly curious, she got up and looked out.

A tall, thin, lanky young man stood beneath her window, grinning up at her miserable face. In one hand he carried a bouquet of farewell-summers and Japanese anemones. With his free hand he lifted his cap off his head, revealing a shock of dark hair. He wasn't handsome, but there was something about his pleasant, good-natured face that made Marigold feel a bit better despite herself.

"Afternoon, miss," he called up in a thick Acadian accent. "Welcome to Misty Hollow. Name's Mickey. I work for your Aunt Edna." He brandished the bouquet. "Thought you might like some flowers to sorter make you feel at home."

Marigold couldn't help but dimple down at him. "Thank you," she called back, trying to inconspicuously wipe her face clean of tears. "Shall I come down and get them?"

"Aye, do," Mickey replied. "And then I can show you the rest of the garden."

Marigold ran lightly down the stairs and out the side door. Mickey presented her bouquet with a dramatic flourish, causing her golden laugh to ring out. Cousin Mira, standing hidden by a window, smiled in satisfaction.

"I think Mickey will be just the friend she needs."

* * *

Mickey showed Marigold all over the garden with a naïve sort of pride. He explained that he was a sailor originally, and had sailed all over the world before landing on P.E.I. and taking on the job as gardener and general handyman to Aunt Edna.

"I tell you, I feel mighty lucky to have gotten work, too," he told her, scratching his head reflectively. "With this here Depression going on, there's many a fine lad that's out o' luck. Your aunt's a fine woman, Miss Marigold."

"Is she?" asked Marigold doubtfully. Her impression of Aunt Edna was of a tiny, fierce old woman with snapping black eyes and a sharp tongue.

Mickey chuckled. "She's got a tongue on her, alright, but she's also got a heart o' gold. There ain't many like her, let me tell you. She expects things done proper, but so long as you foller her directions, she's jest fine."

Marigold decided that she liked Mickey. There was no pretence or false pride about him. He was who he was, and he was quite content with that. He admitted quite openly that he was dreadfully uneducated.

"I can read a little…write some…figger a bit. Don't need much else in my line o' work. Don't make me no better or worse a person."

All in all, when Marigold went inside finally, she felt much better about her prospects. She still wished she could be home, but she didn't even cry herself to sleep as she'd planned. As she changed into her new blue and white sailor-style pajamas, she tried to squeeze out a few tears, but she just couldn't do it. Her mind was too full of fresh air, flowers, and a young Acadian's simple wisdom.


	2. Letters

_Misty Hollow_

_Blair Water_

_September 19, 1931_

_Dear Woody,_

_You will be happy to hear that the experiment is going quite well. Young Marigold seemed likely to be miserable at first, but she soon settled in. Much of that, I must admit, is due to Mickey Lewis, our handyman. He's not much older than Marigold, you know, and they took to each other immediately. He's put her to work helping to winterize the place; she seems to enjoy helping him, judging by the laughter that echoes up out of the garden. In the evenings he plays his fiddle for her. Now, there is no need to fret, Woody dear, for there is no impropriety. Mickey is very respectful toward her, and Marigold looks to him almost as an older brother, I do believe. You may well imagine that Mother would not stand for anything inappropriate in this house!_

_I've undertaken to teach Marigold to sew. My word, but she's a dunce with the needle! I can hardly keep a straight face at her mistakes at times, but I manage, as I don't want to discourage her. She did finally manage to make a skirt to wear while helping Mickey, and was so proud of it that she actually seemed eager to start another project._

_Mother decided that another good idea would be to put Marigold in charge of preparing all the meals one day a week. You told us what a good cook she was, and Mother thought the responsibility would be good for her. She thrives on it! She'll spend hours poring over old cookbooks and rifling through my recipe boxes. Some of the meals have been a bit queer, but overall she's done quite nicely. I know Mother wants to teach her how to manage a household as well, but I convinced her to wait until Marigold was a bit more comfortable with all her other new projects. We don't want to overwhelm her._

_She is a nice, polite little thing, though a little lacking in…something. Almost as if the pinch of salt was left out. I declare, Woody, when I think of how ignorance is damaging the young people of today, I could almost be as fierce as Mother! You and I know the importance of plenty of fresh air and exercise, as well as the absolute necessity of independent thinking and responsibilities. Now here is a girl, fifteen years old, and she hardly has an original thought in her head! I do not blame you, cousin. Thanks to our correspondence over the years I know just how you feel about Marigold's upbringing. She hasn't been taught responsibility, surrounded as she is by protectors. She hasn't a clue how to run a household, as everything at Cloud of Spruce is left to Lazarre and Salome. She's been coddled by Lorraine until she's spoiled, and dominated over by Marian until she's spineless. I've heard her talking to Mickey about her friend Budge (by the by, _what_ a dreadful nickname), and it seems clear that he runs roughshod over her! If there is anything I can do for Marigold while she's here, I hope it's that I can teach her to think for herself and stand on her own two feet._

_Forgive my rant, Woody. I know you and Klondike have done your best for her, but really, what can you do, blocked, as it were, by her mother and grandmother? Your idea of sending her here, using this past summer as an excuse, was brilliant. You can be assured that Mother and I will do everything in our power to heal the damage that's been done, and recover the charming, bright intelligent, spirited girl you described to me almost ten years ago. Mother sends her love. All our best,_

_Miranda Babcock.

* * *

_

_Silver Birches_

_Harmony Village_

_September 24, 1931_

_Dear Mira,_

_I'm so glad everything is going well for you and Aunt Edna. Mickey seems like a godsend. I do hope Marigold takes whatever lessons she learns from you and keeps them close when she returns. I knew you two would be perfect—you, who've had such tragedy in your life yet never grown bitter, and Aunt Edna, who has such life and spirit even at eighty-three. I've wanted to get Marigold away—away from all her influences here—for such a long time, but never had the opportunity to bring it up. Klon's mother would never forgive me if I hinted that she wasn't doing a good job raising Marigold. If Old Grandmother—Klon's grandmother, you know, the matriarch of the family—had lived, she would have done much for Marigold. Just the memory of her has kept the child from all kinds of vices and errors, but a ghost cannot do much, you know._

_I'm sorry this is so brief, but lately I've been easing back into the medical practice, and there's a poor family down at the harbor that desperately needs care. That's one of the beauties of being married. I'm not reliant on patient fees to put food on the table. Klon brings in enough for us to live on, and I am able to help those who truly need it. I must fly,_

_Marigold Lesley.

* * *

_

_Misty Hollow_

_Blair Water_

_September 29, 1931_

_Dearest Mother,_

_I am sorry I haven't written much lately. Mickey and I have been dreadfully busy getting the house all ready for winter. It is utterly _fascinating_ to see how much work goes into running a house smoothly. I had no idea it was so difficult and interesting. Aunt Edna told me yesterday that the dinner I prepared was one of the best she's ever had in her house. I tell you, Mother, I was _so_ proud. I've always been able to cook, you know, but I had a horrible suspicion that you and Salome were always just polite about how good things were. Aunt Edna is never polite, and so I _know_ she was telling the truth. Cousin Mira is helping me sew a skirt. I've made one already. It's dreadful, really, all crooked seams and loose threads, but I only wear it for helping Mickey, so it doesn't matter. Now that I know better what to do, this one will be much nicer. It's the darlingest shade of yellow, just the color that brings out the golden highlights in my hair. Cousin Mira told me that when I wear yellow I'm just like a ray of sunshine brightening up their gloomy house. Wasn't that perfectly sweet of her? Of course, Misty Hollow isn't really gloomy at all, but it was still kind of her to compliment me so. Mickey never pays me compliments, but I feel _instinctively_ that he wouldn't let me spend so much time with him if he didn't like me at least a little. He's so clever, Mother, he can do anything at all, and when he plays his fiddle, it's as if I can see the music. I can't explain it, but I almost feel like it reached down into my soul and brings my hidden thoughts to life. Oh, it sounds too silly when I write it down like that. I'd scratch it out, but then you'd wonder what I'd written, and maybe worry. I know Grandmother doesn't like the idea of me spending so much time with a hired hand, but Mickey's such a superior hired hand, and a perfectly lovely person. I wish I'd had an older brother, Mother. I like to pretend to myself that Mickey really is my older brother sometimes. Isn't it silly? A big girl of fifteen, and I still pretend to myself sometimes. Don't tell Grandmother. She'd think I was going crazy. But that's really how I feel. He's just like an older brother—kind, protective, nice; he teaches me everything he can, and he never told Aunt Edna about the day I fell into the brook and soaked myself! Have you heard anything at all about Budge? He hasn't written me any letters from Queen's. I'm dying to know what it's like. I hope he's doing alright. Likely he's just very busy studying. I still miss you, Mother, and am looking forward to coming home, but I think I'm glad you sent me here. I feel as though I've already grown somehow. I can't explain it. All my love and kisses (and please take some flowers from me to Father's grave next time—I don't want him to think I've forgotten),_

_Marigold.

* * *

_

_Queen's Academy_

_Charlottetown_

_September 30, 1931_

_Dear Marigold,_

_School is fine. Having lots of fun. You'd be jealous if I told you everything I was doing, so I won't. Classes are boring and the professors dull, but the fellows are fine and I'm a big hit with the girls. Sorry you're still stuck in Blair Water. Must be awful boring. I don't ever want to go back to Harmony. It's city life for me from now on. Oh, and don't call me Budge anymore. It's too babyish. All the fellows call me Sid. Suppose I'll see you this summer, but maybe not. I might stay here. We'll see. Must go, I have a date with Annie Recker. Prettiest girl at Queen's, and she thinks I'm swell. See you,_

_Sid.

* * *

_

_Queen's Academy_

_Charlottetown_

_September 30, 1931_

_Dear Marigold,_

_It's too mean that you couldn't come to Queen's. Grandmother is so unfair. We could have roomed together and had all sorts of fun. Instead I have pokey old Becky Frye, who wouldn't know fun if it bit her on the nose._

_I have a stunning new dress for the dance next month. Nobody has asked me to go yet, but I'll go by myself if I have to—or I'll ask one of the boys! I don't see why a girl can't ask a fellow once in a while. The only one I won't ask is your old friend Budge—or _Sid_, as he insists on being called now. I call him Budge in front of his friends and he does get mad! He's turned into an awful flirt. I don't know what you ever saw in him. His friend Tad isn't so bad, but he's just dull as ditchwater._

_Oh, and Marigold, I finally cut my hair. I insisted and insisted that I wouldn't cut it, just because everyone told me I should. But then I got here and _everyone_ has their hair cut and waved. I looked too provincial beside them. So I got it cut, and it looks so good. Everybody thinks I'm so stylish. Oh Marigold, _do_ you remember the day I got my head stuck in the gate because of my curls? I simply shriek with laughter every time I remember that trip. Do you remember the blueberry wine? And the Weed Man? And dressing up for that costume party and frightening old Mrs. Lawrence nearly to death? Gosh, but that was some fun. And how you wouldn't let me baptize the kittens? You were a squeamish little thing then. Have you got more gizzard now? I guess not, if you're friends with an idiot like Sid Guest. Try to have some fun in Blair Water. After all, you're not under Grandmother's thumb anymore. You can do whatever you want, although I've heard from a girl who's from that area that old Mrs. Babcock is a perfect fiend. Gee, you just don't seem to have much luck, do you? Wish you could be here with me. I'd soon loosen you up a bit, and then we'd show these Charlottetown snobs what Lesleys are really capable of! Take care, darling,_

_Gwennie. _


	3. A Dream Made Real

"Well, Marigold," said Cousin Mira pleasantly one early October morning at breakfast, "What are your plans for the day?"

The Harmony Lesleys would hardly have recognized Leander's daughter; her eyes were so bright and alert, her cheeks so round and rosy, her arms and legs so strong, and a blithe look was on her face, as though even eating porridge for breakfast was a delight. "I hadn't decided yet," she answered with a lilt in her voice. "Mickey had to take the car into Shrewsbury for Aunt Edna, so I'm on my own. I thought I might do some exploring. I haven't really seen much of Blair Water beside Misty Hollow yet."

"You ought to trot down to Lofty John's bush," put in Aunt Edna, who was looking much livelier these days herself, as though having a bright young thing like Marigold around reminded her of her younger days. "It's beautiful there this time of year, with all the maples turning scarlet and the spruces still dark...marvelous."

"What's Lofty John's bush?" queried Marigold.

"It actually belongs to Emily Kent," said Cousin Mira. "But John Sullivan owned it before she did, and so folks around here still call it that. It's a spruce and maple grove, beautiful place. In fact, some of the Kent children might be around there today. I think they have a daughter around your age, Marigold. You two should get to know each other."

Marigold perked up a bit. As marvelous of a time as she was having with Mickey, she did miss having companions her own age. Budge had only sent her that one careless scrawl, and nothing else. She wrote to Gwennie and Paula and Bernice almost every week, but she did miss having a friend her own age around. "Well, perhaps I'll meander about the bush, then," she said, rising from the table. "After I do dishes, of course."

"Nonsense child, run along," said Aunt Edna, waving a linen napkin at her. "You're not a slave, you know. The dishes will wait. Go enjoy yourself."

Marigold laughed and danced over to drop a light kiss on the top of Aunt Edna's snow-white hair. "Thank you," she said. She threw on her brown knit cardigan sweater and tam and went out the side door, blowing a kiss to the sleeping garden on her way.

"I knew that girl had something in her, if we could just dig it out," said Aunt Edna.

* * *

Meanwhile, Marigold found Lofty John's bush easily enough. She started along a darling little rambling path lined with young maple trees. Every step seemed to be bringing her further into a wonderland. The maples were showing off their scarlet and crimson leaves, displaying them proudly against the deep green of the more reserved spruce trees. Ferns, starting to turn brown but still delicate and lovely, laced the edges of the path. Here and there Marigold spotted clusters of glowing ruby bunchberries, dotting the landscape with color. She gathered a small bunch and pinned them to her sweater. She wandered along happily, lost in a transport of delight, when she suddenly caught sight of something white and heard a girl's low laugh.

For a moment, her blood ran cold. She remembered all the ghost stories Lazarre had ever told, and wished she hadn't listened to a single one of them. Then she shook herself and laughed. No self-respecting spook would be haunting during the day. This was probably one of the Kent children Cousin Mira had told her about.

She stepped resolutely forward in the direction of the laugh. As she rounded a particularly large maple tree, a dead branch cracked under her foot. A girl, sitting by a little dimpled pool of water, looked up with a startled face.

Goosebumps erupted all up and down Marigold's arms. "Sylvia!" she gasped.

The next moment she was calling herself a fool. Sylvia was a dream-friend she had invented when she was a very little girl. Marigold hadn't even thought about her since she was twelve. This girl _did_ look startlingly like Sylvia, though: clouds of black hair, deep, mysterious, purplish eyes, white skin, red mouth, even down to the pointed ears.

She smiled up at Marigold, a slow, bewitching smile. "Why, how did you know my name?" she asked.

Marigold had another shock. "You—you are—your name really is Sylvia?"

The other girl stood up, revealing herself to be as tall as Marigold. "Sylvia Kent. Who are you?"

"Marigold Lesley," stammered Marigold. She tried to recover her poise. "I'm sorry; you must think me an awful fool. It's just…you reminded me of an old—friend of mine. Her name was Sylvia as well. What an extraordinary coincidence!"

Sylvia Kent sprang across the little pool and clasped Marigold's hands imploringly. "Oh, _don't_ call it a coincidence," she pleaded. "I hate that word. It's so ugly. Call it…fate. I think you and I were fated to be good friends, Marigold Lesley. _What_ a beautiful name! You must feel yourself to be sister to all the flowers. Come, sit and tell me about yourself and your old friend Sylvia, and I'll return the favor by boring you with all the details of my life."

Somewhat dazed, Marigold allowed herself to be pulled down to the ground. Sylvia crossed her legs, arranged her skirt over them, and looked expectantly at Marigold.

"Well," began Marigold hesitantly, "Sylvia wasn't—well, she's not—she was sort of an imaginary friend." She couldn't believe she had just confessed that to this strange girl.

Sylvia clapped her hands and laughed aloud. "You have imaginary friends, too?"

"No, not anymore!" cried Marigold, anxious to clarify things. "Not for ever so long. I outgrew that."

"Oh!" Sylvia drew in a deep breath. "Oh, how sad! I hope I never outgrow imagining things. Mother still does, and she's quite old. But anyway, I'm glad you used to imagine things, because that shows that we're the same sort of people, and it's so hard to be friends with someone who's not the same sort as you, isn't it?"

Marigold found herself breathless from Sylvia's rapid chatter, but she did like her new acquaintance. She had charm, not like Gwennie or Paula or the Princess Varvara, who temporarily bewitched one and then commanded one's very soul. No, Sylvia was just a darling girl who genuinely wanted to be friends. Marigold opened up and told her all about the dream-Sylvia, Mother, Grandmother, Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold, why she was in Blair Water, and what fun she was having.

"Mrs. Babcock and Miss Mira are splendid," agreed Sylvia. "And even though I've never met Mickey, he always smiles and tilts his cap when he passes. Mother says he's a real gentleman, despite his rustic ways."

"Now tell me about yourself," begged Marigold. "Don't make me do all the talking, I'll feel so awfully selfish."

Sylvia smiled her slow, mysterious smile and began. "Oh, I could talk about myself for hours, but I won't bore you—at least not right away. I'll just give you the bare bones. The rest you must learn from knowing us. I live with my mother and father and older twin siblings. Mother is known to the world at large as E.B. Starr, the famous novelist."

Marigold's blue eyes grew large. "The author of _The Moral of the Rose_ and the rest of the _Applegath_ series?"

"The very same," laughed Sylvia. "She's just a darling, sweet mother, though. And my father is Frederick Kent, the famous portrait artist. He's just a jolly old dad. Neither of them are a bit proud or anything. Well, Mother's got a bit of pride, but it's from being half Murray and half Starr, and has very little to do with being famous."

"I can't believe I'm talking to the daughter of the woman who created _Peg Applegath_," said Marigold. She laughed sheepishly. "I seem to be making a terrible idiot of myself today. First I think you're my old imaginary friend, and now I babble like an idiot over your mother. You aren't going to want to have anything to do with me after this!"

"Nonsense!" Sylvia leaned over and hugged her impulsively. "I liked you from the moment I saw you, Marigold Lesley. And I'm half wild with envy over your name."

"Never mind that, tell me more about yourself," urged Marigold. "Any other famous personages in your family?"

Sylvia laughed. "No. Although Cousin Jimmy _should_ be. He is almost a genius, except Aunt Elizabeth pushed him down the New Moon well when he was a boy, and so now he's not 'all there.' But my two older siblings are brilliant. Uncle Dean says that Murray is a true genius. And Sophie wants to be a famous chemist. Can you beat that? I'm the lazy one in the family. I don't have any particular ambition. Oh, I can write a bit and draw tolerably well, but I don't want to make a living of it like my parents do. Rosy Miller—she's one of my closest friends, though we haven't _anything_ in common—says she is going to be a movie star when she grows up, and thinks I should be one too. But look at me! I couldn't ever be a movie star. Rosy has glamour. I don't."

"I think you're splendid," said Marigold honestly. "And you have something _better_ than glamour. You have…have…" she paused. How to describe Sylvia's nameless charm and wordless allure?

Sylvia laughed. "Uncle Dean says that I look just like Mother did at my age—a fair, mysterious visitor from a distant star, here to smile graciously upon the poor mortals and add a touch of other-worldliness to their lives. I have no idea what he means, but I think it's something good."

"Of course it is," said Marigold.

* * *

Marigold was flushed and breathless when she got back to Misty Hollow, late, for supper that night.

"Well," said Aunt Edna, eying her shrewdly. "And what good thing happened to you today? Meet a handsome young man, eh?"

"Of course not," answered Marigold with dignity. Although fifteen years old, she still had no ideas of young men as anything but good comrades. "But I did meet a splendid girl—Sylvia Kent, and oh, she's wonderful! I've never had a friend like her before."

"I don't doubt it," said Aunt Edna dryly. "She's queer as her mother, to be sure."

"Now Mother," said Cousin Mira rebukingly, carrying in a platter of roasted chicken. "You know the Kents are very respectable people, and Sylvia is a thoroughly nice girl. I'm glad you met her, Marigold. I'm sure the two of you will be grand friends."

"I hope so," said Marigold, her eyes shining. "She's just splendid."

She couldn't quite find the right words to describe Sylvia—her elfishness, her naive delight with life, her sparkling imagination that colored everything beautiful…she was the type of friend Marigold had always dreamed of finding, but never thought possible. She made every other girl Marigold had ever known, excepting perhaps Princess Varvara, look drab and crude. And yet she was just as sweet and unassuming as could be.

"Sylvia invited me to spend tomorrow with her and meet her brother and sister and their friends. May I, Aunt Edna?" she asked after dinner.

"Yes, of course," said Aunt Edna. "As long as Mickey and Miranda don't need you for anything around here. You mustn't neglect your duties for pleasure, remember that, my dear."

"Of course you may spend the day with Sylvia," said Cousin Mira. "I can get by just fine here, and Mickey doesn't have much to do himself. Have a good time and don't worry about a thing."

"Oh, thank you, thank you both," said Marigold, her face all alight. "Oh, you're both so good to me. I wish I never had to leave here." She rose from her seat and flung her arms around them each in turn before running out to the garden. "I must just tell Mickey all about Sylvia," she called over her shoulder.

Mickey listened politely to her glowing descriptions of her day. In the dusk, Marigold couldn't see the flush that stained his cheek when she spoke of Sylvia, although she did notice that he was much quieter than usual. She assumed he was tired from the trip to Shrewsbury and didn't think anything of it.

"I just know we'll be marvelous friends," she finished enthusiastically. "I'd love to have her come help us work around here sometime. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Not much work left, Miss Marigold," he said abruptly, taking his old pipe out of his mouth. "I'm afraid you might have to wait until spring to do much more 'round the grounds."

"Oh," said Marigold, temporarily dampened. "Well," she said, brightening up. "That just means that you'll be able to spend more time with us, won't it? I know you'll like Sylvia, Mickey. And I'm sure she'll like you. She already said you were a real gentleman."

"Did she now?" he asked, before placing his pipe firmly back in his mouth and puffing away for dear life on it.

"Oh yes, and Mickey, you simply must play your fiddle for her, too."

"Don't think she'd like my old scrapings," he said gruffly.

"Don't be ridiculous!" cried Marigold. "They're marvelous. _Anybody_ would like them, especially Sylvia. I know she'd appreciate how beautifully you play."

He finally smiled. "Run along now, you flatterer. I'll play for you and Miss Sylvia if I have the time. You jest go and enjoy yourself with her tomorrow and never think o' me at all."


	4. Friendship Formed

In the weeks following, Sylvia and Marigold became fast friends. Not a day went by that one was at the other's house, talking, helping, and growing. They called each other "Sylvie" and "Mari" and learned all there was to know about the other. Marigold discovered Sylvia's sense of inadequacy next to her talented and popular older siblings, her passionate love for beauty and hatred of ugliness, her refusal to face harsh reality, and her fertile imagination. Sylvia learned of Marigold's half-formed dreams and plans, her stifled dreams, her admiration for any strong character, and her journey from independence to being unable to stand up for herself. They talked about ideas and deeper truths, and each helped the other to grow and expand.

Marigold also met Sylvia's family: Mrs. Kent, an older version of Sylvia who was gracious and charming, Mr. Kent, who was reserved and dreamy and very distinguished, Sophia, who was tall and fair and very beautiful and very ambitious, and Murray, who was quiet and thoughtful and reserved. She met Aunt Elizabeth, Aunt Laura, and Cousin Jimmy briefly, when Sylvia took her to New Moon to show her the famous farmhouse where E. B. Starr had grown up.

For her part, Sylvia became well acquainted with Aunt Edna and Cousin Mira, both of whom approved of this friendship very much. She met Mickey and was charmed by him, but he seemed very cool and aloof toward her, to Marigold's puzzlement. He played his fiddle once for them, and then refused to do so ever again, pleaded she never so wisely.

And so things moved along smoothly for a time, until one morning in early December. Marigold and Sylvia were planning on scouring Lofty John's bush for greenery to decorate their houses with in honor of the advent season. As Marigold dressed herself warmly in a pretty red wool skirt and white sweater that morning, she sang under her breath. She had been dreading spending Christmas away from Cloud of Spruce, but somehow she didn't mind it now. Christmas morning would be spent with Aunt Edna, Cousin Mira, and Mickey, and then she was to go over to the Kents for dinner, and then she, Sophie, Murray, and Sylvia were all to go into town for a dance.

"Mari!" called a silvery voice up the stairs. Marigold smiled. She and Sylvia were so comfortable at each other's houses now that they rarely bothered to knock anymore.

"I'm up here!" she called back, quickly running a brush through her hair. "Come on up!"

Light footsteps pattered up the stairs, and then Sylvia's face, flushed with some excitement, appeared in her doorway. "Oh Mari, I'm so excited!" she said breathlessly. "Last night just as we were getting ready for bed we heard voices outside, and who should it be but the Millers! They weren't sure if they'd be able to make it out for Christmas this year, but Uncle Perry just found out last week that he could, and so they just came, without saying anything to anybody. Mother and Aunt Ilse have been talking steadily ever since six-o-clock this morning! Rosy wants to come with us to collect decorations, do you mind?"

Marigold assented readily. Sylvia had talked so much about the Millers that she really felt as though she knew them already. Rosy Miller was fifteen years old, full of city sophistication and lots of fun, the inheritor of her mother's wild spirits and irreverent behavior, as well as her peculiar beauty and temper. Charlie Miller was seventeen, friendly and fun, with no fear or tact. They had been friends with Kents forever, and it was a standing joke in the families that Charlie was to marry Sylvia or Sophie, and Rosy would marry Murray.

Marigold clipped her soft waves back with two little red barrettes and turned to Sylvia. "Let's go!"

They clattered down the stairs and out the door, unmindful of the piercing dark eyes that followed them from where Mickey was shoveling a path to the shed.

* * *

As they approached Hope Fulfilled, the tiny grey home the Kents called home, a short, round figure flew out the front door, her uncovered golden hair glittering in the sunlight.

"Sylvia darling!" she gushed, reaching them breathlessly. "I thought you'd never get back." She cast one cool look out of her odd, light brown eyes at Marigold. "You must be Miss Lesley."

Marigold instantly felt provincial and impossibly young in her simple skirt and sweater, with her hair pulled childishly back and her face free of any kind of makeup. This girl was wearing a very chic black dress with a shocking pink jacket, and _silk_ stockings. Her brilliant golden hair was permanently waved with that indefinable air of being "done" professionally, and her amber-colored eyes were surrounded by unnaturally black lashes, contrasting sharply with her pale face and lips that matched her jacket. To top it all off, her nails were long and painted pink. All around her hung an aura of sophistication and glamour. The little mocking smile on her face showed clearly her opinion of Marigold.

For a moment, Marigold felt like running away. Then, as the mocking glint in the other girl's face became more pronounced, she pulled herself together. After all, even if this _Miss_ Miller was from Montreal and the daughter of a Supreme Court Justice, _she_, Marigold, was a Lesley. Maybe family didn't count for anything in Montreal but it meant something in P.E.I. She drew herself up, looking for all the world as Old Grandmother had looked in her younger days when confronted by something she deemed beneath her notice.

"I am Marigold Lesley," she said, sweetly and clearly. "You must be Rose Miller. It is a pleasure to meet any friend of Sylvie's."

Rosy's smile shrank at the corners. "Oh please, call me Rosy," she said. "Rose sounds so old-fashioned and simple. It's always that way with flower names, don't you think?"

Marigold smiled. "I've always thought there was something magical about them, myself."

"Oh, of course," said Rosy, with a false little laugh. "How stupid of me. I forgot that you were named after a flower, too."

"As a matter of fact," said Marigold, not giving an inch, "I was named after my aunt, a _world_ famous doctor who saved my life when I was a baby. She was named after two flowers, and my family picked Marigold for me." She shuddered to think what would have happened had Aunt Marigold been named simply Woodruff.

Apparently Rosy couldn't think of anything to say to that, for she turned to Sylvia. "Anyway darling, I'm glad you're back. You aren't really thinking of going out into the woods today, are you? It's frightfully cold, and I can feel my lips turning blue even as we speak."

Sylvia, being used to Rosy's airs and pretensions, simply laughed. "Rosy, you goose, if you dressed properly you wouldn't be so cold."

"This is proper dress in Montreal," protested Rosy, hugging her arms around herself. "Dad got me this for my fifteenth birthday. Don't you like it?"

"It wouldn't suit me at all," said Sylvia frankly. "But I think you look darling in it. Come along, dearest. You can borrow something of mine to wear out in the woods, and in return, Mari and I will go into town with you and watch one of your darling cinema idols tonight. Will that suit?"

Rosy brightened. "Very well. Come along then, and dress me in your cast-off rags!" she concluded in a theatrical voice.

Sylvia laughed and led the way into the house. Marigold brought up the rear, thinking that this was going to be a long afternoon, and wishing that the Millers had just stayed in Montreal.

Once inside, she got to meet the rest of the family: Mrs. Miller, who had a very cultured and elegant voice, but whose garish dress somewhat offset the impression; Mr. Justice Miller, who, despite his fine suit and polished manners still looked comfortable and fun; and their son Charlie.

Marigold took to Charlie right away. He was very handsome, with deep grey eyes and light brown hair, strong, decided features, a firm mouth, and a handsome nose. His chin was slightly weak and his eyes set a mite too close together, but Marigold didn't notice either of _those_ features! Unlike his sister, however, there was no sense of snobbery or pride about him. He grinned cheerfully at Marigold as she entered and walked right over to meet her, not even waiting for Sylvia's introduction.

"So _this_ is the prettiest girl in Blair Water I've been hearing so much about!" His voice, like his mother's, was polished and smooth. "Sylvia's been singing your praises ever since we got here. It's a _very_ great pleasure to meet you, Miss Marigold Lesley."

Marigold blushed slightly, then even more when Charlie turned to Murray, who had just come into the kitchen.

"Murray, why didn't you tell me just how beautiful Marigold was? I can't believe you didn't notice it. Were you trying to keep her for yourself, old boy?"

Privately, Marigold thought that Murray didn't like her. He rarely spoke to her, acting most of the time as though she didn't exist. Charlie's outspoken and obvious admiration was much more pleasant. Not to mention, of course, that Charlie's strong, determined appearance was much more appealing to her than Murray's dreamy eyes and sensitive features.

Murray shrugged and murmured something inaudible.

"Oh Charlie, don't tease," said Mrs. Miller impatiently. "Honestly, you'd think neither of you two children had ever had any bringing up whatsoever. Charlie says whatever comes into his head, and Rosy just goes on and on about her precious movie stars."

"Of course, that could not have been inherited from either of their parents," said Mrs. Kent slyly.

Mrs. Miller went off into a loud shriek of laughter. "Oh, Emily B., you're just as sarcastic as ever! Lord, how I've missed you. Why won't you come back to Montreal, you dear thing?"

"We belong on the Island," replied Mrs. Kent calmly. "It's home to us."

Sylvia nudged Marigold. "They'll be going on like this forever. Once Aunt Ilse gets really frustrated with Mother, she'll get mad and yell out all kinds of horrible epithets at her, while Mother will just laugh them off and get very mocking. It's hysterical to watch them; one would think they were still about twelve years old. Come on, Rosy's done changing, so we can head out."

"What! Leaving so soon?" asked Charlie. His large grey eyes grew mournful. "But I've barely had time to get acquainted with the lovely Marigold. You can't leave now."

"Don't worry, we'll be back later this afternoon, Charlie, although you are _not_ to flirt with my friend," said Sylvia sternly. "However, if you really want to get to know her, you and Murray and Sophie can come to the movies with us tonight."

"It's a date," said Charlie, winking at Marigold, who felt her cheeks grow warm again before Sylvia, clicking her tongue in annoyance, hurried them outdoors.

"Charlie's an awful flirt," she warned Marigold as they headed for the bush. "As soon as he sees a pretty girl, he must make her fall in love with him. Don't be taken in by his compliments and smooth talk."

"I won't," promised Marigold. Indeed, she could see that Charlie Miller was far too used to having girls fawn all over him. She remembered Hip Price with disgust.

"Oh yes," chimed in Rosy, looking rather out-of-character in a too-long brown skirt of Sylvia's and a bulky sweater. "He'll likely play you for a fool, and then toss you aside. I've seen it a hundred times before."

Marigold tossed her head. "Nobody plays with a Lesley with impunity," she said haughtily.

Rosy snickered slightly. Sylvia shook her head, a cloud of worry upon her high brow. She sensed the tension between her two closest friends, but didn't know how to go about fixing it. With a faint sigh, she resigned herself to enduring a few days of discomfort before they finally worked things out.


	5. Mickey's Realization

However, more than a few days passed, and still things were cool between Marigold and Rosy. Charlie seemed genuinely taken with Marigold, always making it a point to escort her home at night, sitting by her whenever they went to the movies, and generally going out of his way to make himself agreeable. Marigold appeared flattered by his attention, but, true to her word, she did not fall head-over-heels for his charm. Indeed, Sylvia wondered if her seeming indifference toward Charlie was half of her allure for him. He wasn't used to having to work to get a girl to like him. Most were so thrilled to be pursued by the handsome son of Mr. Justice Miller and the well-known elocutionist Ilse Burnley Miller that they swooned at his feet. Marigold, however, clearly did not think that there was any great honor conferred upon her. If anything, she acted as though it were an honor for _her_, a Lesley of Harmony Harbor, to deign to notice the attentions of Charlie. Sylvia admired her friend for this, but she still wasn't comfortable with the way things were going. Rosy was very obviously jealous of Marigold's simple beauty and unaffected charm, and never missed an opportunity to disparage her, while Marigold treated the Montreal girl with an icy disdain reminiscent of her grandmother. Things were so uncomfortable that Sylvia was doing her best to keep the two girls separate, which naturally meant that while she and Rosy were spending time together, Marigold and Charlie were together. All this was very troublesome to the young lady.

One evening, a week or so before Christmas, Sylvia found herself unexpectedly alone. She had planned on spending the evening with Rosy, but the other girl had developed a slight cough, and Aunt Ilse had decreed that she was to stay in bed until it was gone. Marigold and Charlie had already left for an evening drive in Uncle Perry's new car, and Sophie and Murray were visiting with their friends the Morgans. She wandered around the house like an unhappy shadow until her mother finally told in exasperation her to go find something to do. Sylvia put on her tam and coat and mittens and wandered outside and down the road toward Misty Hollow, thinking that she'd at least see if Marigold was back yet.

The house was closed up and dark; obviously, nobody was home. With a little sigh, Sylvia was turning around to go who knew where, when lovely strains of music caught her ear. Curiosity piqued, she followed it around to where a lanky young man was perched on the old stone fence, unmindful of the icy cold seeping through his coat, coaxing the most beautiful sounds from an old, battered fiddle. Sylvia caught her breath, enchanted. The combination of her mother's _flash_ and her father's artistic sense came together in her at that moment, and illuminated the whole scene with an odd beauty—the rugged hired hand in his shabby clothes, the fine blue winter evening, the ancient stone fence and backdrop of dark spruces, and lilting through it all, the wild, unearthly music. She clasped her hands together and listened breathlessly to the song. In that moment, she felt as though she _knew_ Mickey Lewis, as though his soul was being poured out through the notes, as though she could see past his unlovely exterior into his pure and beautiful spirit.

Then he turned his head and saw her, and the spell was broken. The bow dropped from his hand with a clatter, and a burning rush of red flooded his face, visible even in the twilit evening.

"Miss Sylvia"—he stammered pitifully. "I—I didn't see you there. The folks aren't here—they've all gone out. Miss Marigold went out with that Mr. Charlie—she'll be back sometime."

Sylvia felt dreadfully ashamed. "Oh, I'm so sorry for startling you!" she cried impulsively. "It was most wrong of me to eavesdrop, and I swear, it was truly unintentional. I just thought I'd see if Marigold was back, and then I heard you playing, and I just couldn't help but listen! Oh Mickey, you must allow to tell you—I'm just bursting with admiration—that was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life. Oh, please don't be angry. I promise, I didn't intend to intrude."

In all the gush of words, his features started to relax, and he now even smiled somewhat. "No offense taken, Miss Sylvia. I jest saw that old moon, and something in me seemed to pour out to it. I'm like an old wolf, I guess, who jest _has_ to howl at the moon—the good Lord put it in him. He put it in me too, I s'pose. There weren't no harm in you listening."

Sylvia felt vastly comforted, and without stopping to think about it, hopped up next to him on the fence. "Where did you learn to play like that?" she asked curiously. "Mother and Dad used to take us to concerts in Montreal, but I'm sure I've never heard anything so beautiful from any of those performers, even if they were trained in European conservatories."

Mickey shrugged. "My old dad taught me to scrape a bow across strings when I was naught but a little tyke. As for the rest of it—it jest comes to me. I can't explain it. It jest does itself."

Sylvia looked perplexed. "You're a genius, I guess. That's what Mother always says about her writing—and Dad about his painting—and Murray about _his_ writing. Uncle Dean says that's the mark of a genius—it can't explain itself."

Mickey laughed heartily. "I'm no genius, Miss Sylvia. We're all jest as the good Lord made us, and I don't need no fancy title to describe me." He looked down at her with some concern. "You'll get a chill, sitting on this old fence. Shouldn't you run 'long home 'fore your folks start to fret?"

The smile vanished from Sylvia's face. "There's nothing for me to do back home. Mother is writing—Dad is visiting with Uncle Perry—Murray and Sophie are visiting Christine and David Morgan—Rosy is in bed with a cold—Charlie and Marigold are out driving."

"They didn't offer to take you with them? Selfish liddle critters," scowled Mickey.

"Oh, they didn't mean to be selfish!" cried Sylvia, aware that her lament came across as self-pity. "They would have asked me to come too, but then Aunt Ilse made Rosy go to bed. I didn't mean to complain." She smiled her slow, alluring smile at him.

Mickey, looking down at her sweet, delicate face, her eyes pools of mystery, her subtle charm highlighted by that smile, realized at that moment that he loved Sylvia Kent. He'd always cherished a strong fancy for her, ever since he'd come to Blair Water two years ago, but he knew better than to encourage it. She was as far out of his reach as that moon he'd been playing too. In fact, he'd been thinking of her as he'd been playing, which was why he was so startled when she suddenly appeared before him, looking like a piece of the winter night with her dark hair, white skin, and blue coat and hat.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You weren't complaining, Miss Sylvia," he said, trying to gather his scattered wits. "'Tis only natural to feel a bit lonely when all your friends have left you."

"I'm so glad you understand," she said gaily. "Mari always said you understood everything. I can't think how we haven't gotten acquainted before. But we are friends now, aren't we? And I may come and talk to you when things are troubling me, just like Mari does, mayen't I?"

Mickey's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to have Sylvia around, tormenting him by her sweetness and unreachableness. Still, looking at her appealing face, he knew he could never refuse her anything she asked. "Of course."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in her girlish way. "Then may I ask you to play your fiddle again? I would so love to hear it."

_That_ Mickey knew he could not do, no matter how much she pleaded. The stunning realization of his love for this girl was too fresh. He could not trust himself to play with her being so near, and not reveal his heart through his music. "I'm 'fraid I'm all played out tonight, Miss Sylvia," he said with an attempt at his old easy smile. "But why don't you tell me some o' these troubles you say you have?"

Sylvia gave a satisfied sigh. "That would be reassuring, although I think I'd prefer to hear you play. Still, it _is_ nice to be able to pour out my worries to someone once in a while."

They sat there until Marigold and Charlie came back, cheeks red with cold, faces glowing with laughter. Marigold felt dreadfully that Sylvia had been left behind all alone, but for some reason that maiden couldn't feel sorry. Mickey was such a kind soul, and so very nice, that she almost wished Marigold and Charlie had waited a little longer before returning! Still, there was nothing for it but to bid Marigold and Mickey goodnight, and let Charlie escort her back to Hope Fulfilled.

"How strange," she mused to herself as she crawled into bed that night. "I feel ages older and more separated from yesterday. I wonder why that is? Maybe just because Mickey is so much older, that having him as a friend makes me feel older, too. It's odd—I almost don't like it." She gave a great yawn, and fell fast asleep, untroubled by the thoughts of love and hopelessness that kept Mickey awake that night.


	6. Christmas Surprises

_Misty Hollow_

_Blair Water_

_December 21, 1931_

_Dearest Mums,_

_It seems so strange to think that we won't be spending Christmas together—the first time ever! And with Christmas being held at Cloud of Spruce again, too. I was dreadfully afraid that I'd be terribly homesick, but it really just seems like an adventure, although of course I will miss you. I'm so very excited about the Christmas dance. Charlie Miller is taking me, and all the other girls are so envious._

_Mums, I wish I could talk to you about Charlie. Sylvie says he's a flirt, and he's obviously very used to having girls fall for his charm. I told myself I wouldn't take him seriously, but he's been paying me more and more attention, and he _seems_ serious enough. He's so very nice and fun, and he pays such delicious compliments. How can I tell if he's really interested in me, and do I even want him to be? His sister hates me, and his mother is really quite patronizing, although his father is unaffected. I don't even really know how much I like him! I just wish you were here and I could lay my head on your shoulder and tell you everything, and have you give me advice. How did you know when you first fell in love with Father? Were you sure it was real? Was it all butterflies in your tummy all at once or did it happen gradually? Did you ever think you were in love with anybody before you and Father met? I can't believe we've never talked about this before._

Marigold sighed and crumpled up the letter. She couldn't send that to her mother. Lorraine would worry and fret, and she couldn't really help anyway. What Marigold really needed was someone like Old Grandmother, with her gift of sizing up people and cutting to the heart of things.

The young girl rose from her table and looked intently at herself in the mirror. _Was_ she falling for Charlie Miller? Did she even know what love was? She shook her head. Maybe she was being silly. Maybe this was all just adolescent hormones running wild, and would run its course and end painlessly. If only there was someone she could talk to! Mickey would be sure to give her good advice, but he'd seemed strangely abstracted and distant lately, even talking about leaving Blair Water and heading back out to sea. Cousin Mira said he was affected with wanderlust, but Marigold was heartbroken at the thought of him leaving. They hadn't had a real conversation in days.

In many ways, Marigold almost wished the Millers had never come back to Blair Water. Life was so much simpler when they weren't around. She didn't have to worry about falling for Charlie, Rosy wasn't shooting her glares and snide remarks every time she came around, Sylvie wasn't so busy, and Mickey hadn't even hinted at wanting to leave—although she supposed she couldn't blame _that_ on them.

She sighed again. Only four more days until Christmas and the dance. Maybe things would clear up then.

* * *

Charlie stopped by later that afternoon to pick her up for a drive. He was talking politely and courteously to Aunt Edna as Marigold came down the stairs. Despite his charm, he never seemed to get anywhere with Aunt Edna or Cousin Mira, both of whom viewed Marigold's infatuation with him in distaste. Aunt Edna, in spite of her age, was still a shrewd judge of character; she could see what Marigold, blinded by youth and romance, could not: that Charlie Miller was essentially a weak character, with no moral fiber or any kind of principles.

All Marigold saw, however, was a charismatic young man who paid her the greatest of attention and was even polite to elderly ladies who were quite rude to him in return. To be sure, he made fun of Aunt Edna behind her back, but Marigold pushed that to the back of her mind. Just seeing him made her heart skip a beat. All her good intentions and plans of keeping her head and not letting herself fall for him flew far away. When he smiled at her and helped her into her coat, she felt her knees grow slightly weak. As they spun off in the car, she decided she really didn't need four whole days to confirm what she felt: she was most definitely falling for Charlie Miller, and she didn't care.

* * *

The next four days flew by, and before Marigold knew it, Christmas had arrived. She and Mickey, forgetting their respective problems, had decorated Misty Hollow inside and out with greenery, bows, and candles. The massive spruce tree in the parlor had just been set up the night before, a Babcock Christmas Eve tradition. With Mickey on a ladder to reach the heights, Marigold getting everything else, Cousin Mira digging treasured decorations from the depths of an old box, and Aunt Edna ensconced in her high-backed armchair giving direction, they had turned the tree into a thing of wondrous beauty, glittering with gold and silver and red ornaments, and little white candles tied to every bough. The stair rails were wrapped with garland and jaunty red bows, strings of gold and silver beads festooned the chandeliers, holly branches were above every window, and Cousin Mira had roguishly hidden mistletoe in unexpected spots all over the house.

Christmas morning was spent simply and pleasantly with just the four of them. Marigold and Cousin Mira made cinnamon buns and bacon for breakfast, with hot tea for the two older ladies, black coffee for Mickey, and hot chocolate for Marigold. Presents were opened in the mysterious candlelight from the tree, and then Mickey regaled them with tales of Christmases past, spent in every far-off corner of the globe.

Marigold sighed with happiness as she put on her wool coat to walk over to the Kents, carrying her first evening dress—a present from Aunt Edna and Cousin Mira—in a bag along with her gold slippers and new fur cape (sent by Aunt Marigold and Uncle Klon—Marigold suspected that Aunt Marigold and Cousin Mira had conferred about the presents). For the moment, she was too excited to worry about Rosy's sneers or be confused about Charlie.

"Ready, Mickey?" she asked him. As it was a special occasion, he was escorting her to the Kents.

The young man looked awkward and uncomfortable in his one good suit instead of his everyday working clothes. "I still don't know how you talked me into this, Miss Marigold," he grumbled, struggling with his tie.

"Oh, stop your fussing, young man," ordered Aunt Edna. "It does you no harm to look like a gentleman one day out of the year. Now run along, you two, and Mickey, make sure Marigold's home from the dance at a reasonable hour."

"Aye, ma'am," he said, tipping his cap to her and holding the door for Marigold.

"I'm sure I don't know why you don't like to dress up," said Marigold as they headed down the road in the frosty midday air. "You really are a gentleman, Mickey, in all your ways. It's just your general appearance that belies it."

"Oh well," he said good-naturedly, his normal cheerfulness restored by the fresh air. "If folks can't see through my rags and common ways, then their opinion ain't worth fussing and fretting over."

"You _do_ understand that Charlie is my escort for the dance, don't you?" Marigold queried anxiously as they neared Hope Fulfilled. "Sylvia said she would be happy to let you escort her and Rosy, and Charlie asked me days ago if he could take me."

Perhaps it was the wind that burned a flush suddenly into Mickey's cheek as he answered. "So long as Master Miller knows to bring you home in good season, I don't see that it matters who escorts who."

* * *

The dinner with the Kents was delightful, full of fun and good humor. Mickey was slightly nervous at first in front of so many prominent people, but Mr. Justice Miller soon engaged him in conversation about mutual places to which they had both sailed, and almost before he knew it, he was the life of the party. To be sure, Sylvia was a little hurt that he hadn't spoken to her at all, beyond a simple "Happy Christmas," or even looked in her direction, but nobody else noticed anything amiss.

To the girls, the climax of the day came when they ran upstairs to dress for the dance. It was quite a tight squeeze: Marigold, Sylvia, Rosy, Sophie, and Sophie's good friend Christine Morgan, but they endured it with giggles and grace. For the moment, even the animosity between Rosy and Marigold was set aside.

Sophie and Christine had their dresses made in the same style, though different colors. Both had elbow-length puffed sleeves, a low back, and a skirt that hugged their forms to their hips, and then flared out sharply to the floor. Sophie's was a powder-blue velvet, with pearl jewelry and a strand of pearls woven through her unfashionably-long hair, done tonight in an elegant French braid. Christine, who had auburn hair, chocolaty-brown eyes, and who reminded one of a porcelain doll, so fragile and fair was she, had her dress made of forest green velvet, with tiny little emeralds glittering at her ears and throat. Both girls had velvet wraps to match their gowns.

Sylvia's dress was very simple and elegant, being a soft silvery ankle-length chiffon slip with an asymmetrical hemline and a matching short-sleeved lace jacket fitting closely over the bodice, buttoning at the neck and just under the bust. Uncle Dean had sent her a diamond set for Christmas, and the necklace now lay snugly in the hollow of her throat, sparkling and glittering alluringly, matching the winking stones in her ears and on her wrist.

Rosy, naturally, was the most stylish and daring of all the girls. Her dress was of black velvet, fitting very closely to her bodice and hips, and swaying out from there. The front had a daringly low scoop neck, and the back was practically non-existent, showing off her fashionable tan quite nicely. To add a splash of color, Rosy had wide, sheer sleeves of bright pink gauze hanging to her elbow, and a pink ribbon encircling her waist, the ends of which fell to the floor in front. Her velvet wrap was of the same shade pink, as were her nails and lips and jewels.

Marigold's dress, while not as showy as Rosy's, suited her delicate beauty perfectly. Made of pale yellow silk crepe, the sleeveless gown had matching Vs in the back and front. Her small waist was defined and set off by ruching in the center front, and the wide straps gave off that same pinched effect at the shoulder by being gathered by a yellow ribbon, the ends of which brushed her arms. Like Sylvia, her hemline was asymmetrical, the left side reaching her ankle, and the right touching the floor.

Sophie gave a deep sigh of satisfaction as she gazed at all their reflections in the large mirror. "Scientific mind though I have, there _is_ something nice in being a girl and being able to dress up. No woman, no matter where else her interest lies, can possibly pretend to not care about clothes _all_ the time."

Christine laughed her light, tinkling laugh which always reminded Marigold of wind chimes. "Come on, Miss Scientific Mind, let's go before David and Murray forget about us. There will be little point to these lovely frocks if our escorts leave us at home."

Laughing gleefully, the five girls ran down the stairs, where Murray, Christine's brother David, Charlie, and Mickey were awaiting them.

"Who will be your escort, Sylvia?" Marigold heard Rosy ask her friend. "After all, your brother is taking Sophie."

"Mickey very kindly offered to take both you and me," answered Sylvia, "as Charlie is taking Marigold."

"_WHAT?"_ Rosy's outraged shout echoed through the hallways, causing everyone to stop and stare at her. She went on, oblivious. "Of course Charlie is taking me! You don't expect me to go with a _hired hand_, do you?"

Mickey flushed in embarrassment, but not as much as Sylvia, who went crimson over the insult. Both of them, however, were eclipsed by Marigold, whose face turned deadly white. She faced Rosy with her eyes blazing.

"Of course we wouldn't ask Mickey—who is honest, hard-working, true, kind, and better-bred than you, miss—to take a selfish, thoughtless little puss like you to the dance! Charlie can take you, and I would be honored to go with Mickey. _You don't deserve him_!" With that, she swept the rest of the way down the stairs, past the dumbfounded Charlie, and held her arm out to Mickey. "If you would be so kind?" she added in a lower voice.

He smiled at her. "It would be my very great pleasure." He helped her on with her cape and they moved toward the door.

Rosy turned her shocked face toward Sylvia, expecting sympathy. However, Sylvia reached up, slapped her hard on the cheek, and tore down the stairs after the other two. "Wait—Mari, Mickey, wait!"

They turned around as she flung her own half-cape on and joined them. "After all, I still need an escort as well, don't I?" smiling at them.

Marigold laughed, and they headed down the road, a girl on each of Mickey's arms.


	7. A Growing Experience

It wasn't a very long walk to the village hall, where the dance was being held, but it was long enough for Marigold to recover her equilibrium and poise. She was still furious over Rosy's insult to Mickey, but she managed to push the matter to the back of her mind so as to be able to enjoy the rest of the evening. She did reflect with satisfaction on the look on Rosy's face as Sylvia slapped her. _That _was a priceless moment.

Sylvia and Mickey now were looking at the stars and discussing them softly. Dean Priest had instructed Sylvia in the ancient myths and legends surrounding those far-off, crystal points in the night sky, and she was now relating some of them to Mickey. For his part, while he didn't know much about the names or tales spun around them, each star was a personal friend to him, seen from the deck of a ship, comforting him and guiding him through the most difficult times of his life. Marigold walked quietly along, listening to them talk. Uncle Klon had taught her about the stars when she was a young child, but she didn't want to interrupt the cozy chat between the other two. She shivered suddenly, not from cold, but from the odd feeling of being outside of things. For one forlorn moment she wished Charlie _had_ escorted her, as originally planned. Then she would be part of a conversation as well, though not on stars. No, Charlie was essentially modern and practical. His conversation revolved around himself, cars, himself, the latest fads and styles, himself, and how pretty Marigold was. She admitted to herself, hurrying down the icy road, that sometimes she grew tired of such shallow talk. There were times when she longed to talk about _ideas_, about real things, about things that really mattered. However, with a little sigh, she guessed that perhaps it wasn't expected for women to show interest in such matters.

Her sigh attracted the attention of Mickey. "Cold, Miss Marigold?" he asked, tucking her hand a little more securely in the crook of his arm. "We'll be there soon."

"Mickey, I wish you wouldn't call me 'miss,' " Marigold said impulsively. "It seems to separate us so. Can't you just call me Marigold?"

He shook his head. "Wouldn't rightly be respectful."

"Don't be silly!" Sylvia exclaimed. "Mari's right, all it does is create a chasm between us that ought not to be there. _Please_, Mickey, can't you just call us both by our first names?"

"As a Christmas present?" Marigold added. In the moonlight, both girls turned their most bewitching smiles on the helpless young man.

What could he do but capitulate? He laughed. "Alright, so be it. But if Miz Babcock gives me a tongue-lashing for this, be it on your head—Marigold."

She laughed triumphantly. "I'll take full responsibility."

As they approached the hall, she shivered in anticipation. The lights and music pouring out of the windows seemed full of promise and allure. Her first dance! _What_ could be more delightful?

Charlie had possession of his father's car that night, so he and Rosy were already well-established when the rest got there. Rosy was surrounded by young men, laughing and flirting, a bit of heightened color the only evidence that she even saw them come in. Charlie turned his eyes immediately toward Marigold, and then just as quickly turned them back again, smiling and laughing with a very pretty girl. Sylvia and Marigold glanced at each other, and then, by mutual unspoken accord, decided to act as though nothing had gone amiss that evening at all.

Sylvia turned to Mickey. "Will you honor me with this dance, sir?" she asked gaily.

He looked uncomfortable. "I ain't much for dancing, Mi—er, _Sylvia._"

"That's fine, just follow my lead," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the dance floor. "Don't worry, Mari, you can have the next dance with him!" she called back over her shoulder.

Marigold smiled, doing her best not to feel awkward and alone, or hurt over Charlie's indifference toward her. Perhaps she _had_ been too hasty in thinking he really cared about her. She looked around and saw Sophie and Christine standing near the refreshment table, and started to move toward them.

She hadn't gone very far, however, when Charlie suddenly appeared in front of her, his eyes cold, his expression hard, and something overall in his demeanor that troubled Marigold vaguely.

"How could you do that to me tonight?" he demanded without preamble. "How could you just up and leave me like that? Don't I mean anything to you?"

Marigold was distressed. She had hoped that he would understand. "Charlie, it wasn't that I didn't want to come with you—I did!" she tried to explain. "But I couldn't just leave Mickey there like that. He's been like a brother to me ever since I got here. It would have been selfish and mean just to ignore his need." Even as she was trying to explain, her cheeks flushed again with anger at the memory. How _dare_ Rosy insult him so?

She looked so pretty, standing there in her golden gown, her eyes sparkling with anger, her face tinted with red, that Charlie softened toward her immediately. Still, he wanted to salve his ego, so he was careful not to let his expression change. "Here I thought it was a prime chance for us to show up somewhere in public as a couple—prove that you're my girl. You _are_ my girl, aren't you, Marigold?"

"I—don't know," she answered confusedly, yet with a delightful thrill running through her at those magic words _my girl_. "I wasn't sure if you were that serious about me."

Charlie allowed his eyes to grow sentimental. "Serious about you? I'm _crazy_ about you! You're the prettiest girl I know. Why else would I spend so much time with you?"

Marigold wished briefly that he had mentioned another reason for wanting to spend time with her besides just her looks, but she was given no time to reflect on that as he continued.

"The question is, though, Marigold, do you want to be my girl? If you've just been playing around, tell me now, so I can turn my attentions elsewhere, to someone who is interested."

""No—no!" she said emphatically. "I do want to be your girl, Charlie, really I do," with another thrill.

Charlie immediately gave her his most charming smile. "Then in that case, may I have this dance, Miss Lesley?"

She smiled up at him, relieved he was no longer angry with her, and elated that things were finally secure between them. "Certainly, kind sir," she answered lightly.

He took her in his arms and they floated off on the dance floor. Charlie was an exquisite dancer, and for the first few steps, Marigold thought that her first dance was going to be everything she'd ever dreamed.

Then, suddenly, Charlie swept her off into a dark corner. Marigold let out a startled squeak.

"Charlie! What are you doing?"

He didn't answer her in words, just bent his face toward her and, before she realized it, kissed her on the lips.

Marigold gasped and pushed him away instantly. "Charlie! How _dare_ you?" she cried indignantly.

He laughed boldly. "You silly goose, what did you think it meant to be my girl?" He tried to put his arms around her again, but she stepped away, furious.

"I do not kiss," she said in a killing imitation of Grandmother's dignified manner. She didn't feel dignified, though. She felt soiled, unclean, as though a veil had suddenly been torn away from her innocent eyes, revealing an ugly pit before her very feet.

"Why do you think I wanted to go with you, if not to kiss you, little fool?" Charlie said, starting to get angry himself now.

"I suppose," said Marigold, her voice still icy, "That I thought perhaps you actually cared for me as a _person_, not just as a decorative plaything for your amusement!" With that, her composure broke, and she fled from the corner, tears streaming down her face.

She didn't see anybody or anything, just ran blindly out the door and stood on the porch, mindless of the cold night or freezing wind on her bare arms. She wrapped her arms around a post and sobbed bitterly. She had been such a little naive fool! How could she let herself be taken in by his surface charm and shallow compliments? She went hot all over with shame as she remembered his lips on hers.

"I can never show my face in public again," she sobbed. She desperately wished Sylvia or Mickey were there to comfort her, but the two of them had been dancing on the other side of the room and noticed nothing.

Then a gentle voice spoke from behind her. "Marigold?"

She turned her face to see Murray standing there, a concerned look on his face. She didn't want to see him, of all people! He was so withdrawn and reserved, and she always felt a little uncomfortable whenever she met his gaze. She hurriedly tried to wipe away her tears, but it was too late.

"You'll freeze out here like this," he said, taking off his coat and gently placing it around her shoulders. Then he looked directly into her eyes. "Are you all right?"

"F-fine," she replied, her teeth starting to chatter, partly from cold and partly from reaction.

"No you're not," Murray said quietly. "Charlie's a scoundrel. He ought to be thrashed."

Marigold blushed. So he had seen! Had _everyone_ seen? Did they think she was the kind of girl who—who—well, one of _those_ kinds of girls? For the first time since arriving in Blair Water, she desperately wished she could go home.

Murray appeared to notice her distress. "Don't worry," he said, touching her arm lightly. "I don't think anyone else saw. I—I happened to be watching, that's all. It's my fault, really. I know Charlie, you see. We've been friends since we were kids, although we've grown apart considerably since. I know how he treats girls, and I was watching to make sure he didn't try—well, try what he did. But by the time I saw, it was too late for me to get across to stop him. I'm sorry."

Marigold felt much calmer, strangely. Murray's voice, while not mellifluous and heart-stopping like Charlie's, was deep and soothing. And what a kind face he had! None of Charlie's bold handsomeness, but there was depth and character to it. "I just feel so foolish," she admitted.

Murray perched himself on the porch rail next to her. "Don't," he said. "Charlie has all of Aunt Ilse's charm without her strength. He and Rosy both have been petted and given their own way their whole life. It's no wonder they're both selfish and thoughtless—not that I'm trying to excuse them. They were both completely out of line tonight, Rosy with Mickey, and Charlie with you."

Marigold turned and leaned her arms on the rail, gazing out at the brilliant moon. "My first dance," she mused. "I thought it was going to be so rainbow-y and glorious. And now it's been tainted forever. I'll never be able to look back on this night without feeling ashamed and embarrassed."

"Try to look at it as a growing experience," suggested Murray with a faint, mischievous smile hovering around his lips. "Lesson One: Never trust men."

Marigold couldn't help but laugh, but she grew serious again shortly. "I think some men can be trusted," looking directly at him. "Thank you, Murray."

To her surprise, he blushed. "Do you think you can go back inside now?" he asked, hopping off the rail.

Marigold shivered. "I don't want to," she said. "I just want to go home, but Mickey's busy, and I can't leave by myself."

"Looks like you're going to have to face your fears," Murray said sympathetically. "I'll go with you, and I won't leave your side until and unless you tell me it's all right."

He was so compassionate and understanding that she felt ashamed of her cowardice. Remembering that she was a Lesley, she tilted her chin up a little. "Let's go." She handed him his coat back and walked back inside the crowded hall.

Despite her resolve, her heart was beating rapidly, and she could feel her cheeks heating. To her amazement, it was just as Murray had said. Nobody had seemed to notice the kiss or her rapid departure at all! She didn't get so much as one strange glance or sneer from anybody. Fearfully, she scanned the room for Charlie. He was back talking to the pretty girl, apparently determined to punish her, Marigold, for not properly appreciating his attentions.

Murray nudged her. "That's Betty Crowe, the daughter of Rhoda Stuart and Brian Crowe. Mother knew Rhoda when they were in school, and she says she was a pretty girl, but poisonous underneath. Charlie's chosen a bad target for his revenge."

"I don't care," Marigold said, but she _did_ care, despite her brave act. It hurt horribly to see Charlie, for whom she had cherished some romantic feelings and had such a—what was that word she had heard for the first time recently? oh yes, had such a _crush_ on, flirting casually with some other girl. Marigold felt as disillusioned as if all her dreams and ideals had come crashing down around her ears at once.

Murray, looking down at her trembling lips, scowled. He was not a man of violence, but at that moment he earnestly desired to take Charlie outside and give him a pounding. Feeling that it would only embarrass Marigold more, and cause a worse scene, he restrained himself, and instead directed Marigold over to where Sophie, Christine, and David were talking.

"Not dancing?" he asked them lightly.

His twin made a face. "The last boy I danced with tried to compare my eyes to 'twin ponds of blue," and my hair to 'straw spun to gold.' I decided I had had enough of dancing until someone with intelligence asked me."

Murray stifled a laugh. Sophia was essentially practical, with a keen mind and a brilliant intellect. Unfortunately, her classic beauty fooled many people into not taking her seriously or looking beyond her pretty face and lovely figure. He turned his attention to the Morgans. "What about you two?"

Christine shrugged. "I got bored with it all, and Dave's just being kind enough to stand with us so that nobody bothers us. What about you two? Where've you been?"

Murray felt Marigold stiffen beside him, but he answered lightly enough. "Oh, it was getting a bit too stuffy in here for us, so we slipped outside for a breath of fresh air. There really is a beautiful moon out there tonight."

"I'm not really up for much dancing tonight, either," added Marigold, her voice commendably steady.

"Why don't we leave, then?" David spoke up. He was a rather handsome young man, with dark hair and eyes and polished features. "I don't feel much like dancing myself, and although I know how Murray _adores_ it," turning a twinkling gaze to his friend, "I'm sure he could be persuaded to go with us. I'm sure there are much more profitable ways to spend the evening than standing around watching our peers make fools of themselves."

"A very good idea, David," said Sophie. "If you boys would be so kind as to find Sylvia—oh, and Mickey for you, Marigold, we ladies will get our wraps and meet you outside."

Murray heard Marigold's relieved sigh and nodded at his sister. "Good idea."


	8. Sophie's Advice

Over the next few days, Marigold didn't see Charlie at all, much to her relief. She knew that many people would consider her reaction to a "simple" kiss to be unreasonable and old-fashioned, but she had been brought up with very definite ideas of right and wrong, and it had been rather strictly ingrained into her that only "fast" women allowed men to kiss them before they were engaged. She still felt embarrassed when she thought about it, but was trying to take Murray's advice and look at it as a life lesson.

Murray. Now there was an enigma. For months, she had thought that he didn't like her at all, but he had been so kind and considerate that awful night, and always made it a point now to speak to her whenever she was over at his house. He didn't pay her compliments, like Charlie, but Marigold felt that he respected her and was genuinely interested in her thoughts on various matters.

Still, she was awfully hurt by Charlie's actions, and cried herself to sleep a few nights. She really had thought she meant something _real_ to him, and had let herself fall hard, just like a silly schoolgirl.

Sylvia knew all about it, of course, and tried her best to console her friend.

"Charlie's an idiot," she said, her delicate face marred by a black scowl. "I can't believe he and Rosy acted the way they did! I knew they were a bit too full of themselves, but I had no idea they were as bad as all that. I told Rosy on Boxing Day that I wasn't going to speak to her again until she apologized to Mickey, and I'm not even telling Charlie that I'm not speaking to him until he apologizes to you. He'll just have to figure that out for himself."

Marigold gave a half-laugh, half-sigh, her fingers aimlessly pleating Sylvia's blue-and-white bedspread. "I really liked him, though, Sylvie. That's what I feel the worst about. Am I really that poor a judge of character to fall for somebody like that without even seeing their faults?"

Before Sylvia could answer, a blond head poked in her bedroom door. "Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn't help overhearing," said Sophie. "Do you girls mind if I give you some advice, from someone who has been through all this before?"

Sylvia looked at Marigold, who said, "Of course not! I always wished I had an older sister to help me understand things."

Sophie came all the way in and sat next to Marigold on the bed. Sylvia, in her rocking chair, leaned forward so that all three heads, blond, brown, and black, were close.

"I'm sure you girls are aware of the very great admiration and respect I have for David Morgan," Sophie began, a faint blush illuminating her cheeks. "But I didn't always appreciate his qualities. A couple of years ago, when I was fourteen—that summer you were staying with Aunt Ilse, Sylvia—I fell head over heels in love with a much older man: Uncle Dean's nephew Alex Priest, the one who inherited Wyther Grange from Leslie Priest. He was very handsome and rich, and had those dreamy grey-green eyes like Uncle Dean's…" she trailed off for a moment, before shaking her head briskly and resuming. "Anyway, while Uncle Dean was visiting us, Alex came over to visit _him_, and, as I said, I fell hard for him. I really thought I was in love. All I could think about was him, morning, noon, and night. I would have even given up my chemistry for him.

"He was perfectly aware of my feelings, and deliberately encouraged me in them. He would take me for long walks, read me poetry, pay me the most romantic compliments…he even kissed my hand a few times, and I, foolish schoolgirl that I was, swallowed it all. Finally, however, Uncle Dean saw what was going on, and sent Alex away. I was heartbroken at first, and was convinced Uncle Dean had ruined my only chance at happiness. I really thought that I was going to marry Alex.

"Then Uncle Dean took me aside one day and gently explained that Alex was engaged to a girl in Charlottetown—had been, for the past few years—and was only amusing himself with me." Sophie drew in a deep breath, as though the memory was still painful.

"Oh, how I cried and cried! I felt so used, so foolish! I told Uncle Dean I would never trust another man, that I was done with love. I remember it so clearly. He smiled gently at me, shook his head, and said,

" 'Dear little girl, this wasn't love. This was infatuation, sprung from a combination of foolishness and physical attraction. Love is not built on romance and butterflies in the tummy. Those are all very well and good, but our emotions lie to us. They tell us one thing is true, when our heads know perfectly well that it isn't.'

" 'How can I know when it is real, then?' I asked him.

" 'Love is built on respect, on mutual admiration, on esteem for the other's character,' he answered. 'Love is a choice, not a feeling, Sophia. We can't always control our feelings, but we can control our actions. We choose to love someone, through the good times and the bad, no matter what our emotions tell us. Romance is all very well and good, and it is good to have in a relationship, but it isn't a good thing to base a relationship on, nor should it dictate our choices. Find a man you can respect and admire for his character, and see if love grows from that.'

"It was only a few months after that that I started noticing David's character, how kind he was, how devoted, how dedicated…" Sophie smiled sheepishly. "I could go on about him forever. The important thing is, Uncle Dean was right. I started to appreciate David for his qualities, not how romantic he made me feel, and first we became better friends, and now I do truly love him." She patted Marigold's hand. "Does this help at all, Mari? I don't want to preach, but I do so hate to see girls wasting their lives falling in and out of love without ever stopping to consider that they can actually control themselves! As Aunt Elizabeth once said to me, when you have butterflies in the tummy, nine times out of ten it isn't love, it's indigestion."

That set all three girls to giggling, and soon Sophie rose and went on her way, leaving two very thoughtful girls behind her, Marigold reflecting on how she had let her emotions run away with her, and Sylvia thinking of the respect and admiration _she_ bore for a certain young man.

* * *

It was a few days after that, when the three Kents and Marigold were heading over to the Morgans to see out the old year and welcome in 1932, that Charlie accosted them on the road.

Despite the bitter cold, his jacket was hanging open and his cheeks were unusually flushed, his eyes glittering brightly. "Hello, Marigold," he said with his usual flirtatious manner, smiling boldly at her and ignoring the other three. "I've decided to forgive you, you see, and I'm going to take you into town to celebrate New Year's Eve."

Marigold felt her heart beat a little faster at the invitation. She _did_ still have feelings for Charlie, she had to admit it. However, remembering Sophie's story, she stood her ground, though her voice trembled noticeably. "No thank you, Mr. Miller. As you can see, I already have plans."

"Aw, come on, Marigold," he pleaded, coming a little closer. "Don't be such a stiff. Don't you want to be my girl?"

At those words, so reminiscent of his question at the Christmas dance, Marigold sucked her breath in sharply. As she did so, she caught the scent of something on the frosty air—a smell that reminded her of Phidime Gautier and the inside of Granny Phin's house. In an instant, she knew why Charlie was so red, why his coat was open, and why he seemed to be having a difficult time standing straight.

"You're drunk!" she said in horror.

Charlie grinned. "Not really—just a little. Just enough to have some fun. Aw come on, Marigold baby, loosen up a little. Come have fun with me."

Before anybody could say anything, a lithe figure flew past Marigold. It was Murray, but a Murray none of them had ever seen before. His face was as white as the snow, and in his dark blue eyes was a fearsome glow. He swung his fist back and caught Charlie a blow right on the jaw. Charlie staggered back a few steps and sat down abruptly on the road. Murray grabbed him by the coat collar, hauled him upright, and swung again, this time catching him in the stomach. Charlie's eyes bulged out as he doubled over, coughing and retching.

"You—dog!" thundered Murray, shaking him violently. "How dare you even speak to a lady in such a manner? You ought to be tarred and feathered, you filthy skunk!"

In that moment, watching Murray thrash Charlie for his behavior, Marigold grew up. In one moment, she went from being a child to a young woman, forever. It was as if the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw things clearly for what they were. She saw Murray for the fine man he was, Charlie for the scoundrel _he_ was, and herself for the easily swayed girl she was, with no real fixed principles of her own.

And with that, Marigold grew fully into her Lesley legacy. The strength and purity of her father, combined with the sensitivity of her mother came together at once, shaping her into the woman God had intended her to be from the day she was born.

While she stood there, wondering at the sudden change she felt in herself, Murray finally threw Charlie away from him, leaving him huddled in a heap on the road.

"Get up," he said, his voice filled with icy disdain. "And don't let me ever catch you speaking to one of my sisters or Marigold ever again, do you understand?"

Apparently Charlie did, for he staggered to his feet and ran off down the road, never once looking behind him. Slowly, the fighting light died out of Murray's eyes. He looked down at his hands as if wondering if they were his own.

"Oh Murray," whispered Sylvia, her voice trembling.

"Well," Sophie spoke up, her practicality coming to the rescue. "This has delayed us long enough. I suggest we hurry, so the Morgans don't wonder what happened to us, and I also recommend we put this—unpleasant incident out of our minds as much as possible. Dwelling on it will do no good."

Murray scrubbed his hands over his face. "Sure," he said. "Good idea. Let's go."

As they started off once more, Marigold dropped back beside him. "Thank you," she said shyly. She didn't really know what to say when a gentleman fought for her honor, but she figured thanking him was a good start.

"He deserved it," Murray replied simply. He shuddered. "Never done that before."

"I'm sorry you had to do it now," said Marigold honestly.

"It wasn't your fault," Murray said grimly. "He had it coming." He shook his head. "Sophie was right, we shouldn't let this spoil our evening. Come, let's forget about it and see the old year out with right good cheer!"

His theatrical tone on the last three words made Marigold laugh, her golden tones ringing out across the clear late afternoon sky.

* * *

For such an inauspicious start, the evening at the Morgans' turned out to be quite enjoyable. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were gracious hosts, welcoming them to their home and making sure they had plenty of cocoa and cookies. Marigold expected them to disappear upstairs after that and leave the young people to themselves, but, to her surprise, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan seemed like young people themselves, eagerly participating in all the fun. Even the two youngest members of the family, Daniel and John, stayed up far past their bedtime, thrilled to be a part of things. Marigold had never seen such a close-knit family before, and it charmed her.

They played games long into the night, and as the clock neared twelve, discussion turned to more serious matters.

"What New Year resolutions are you all planning on making?" asked Christine gaily, laying on her back on the floor with her arm around a sleeping John.

Sophie answered first. "To focus less on my work and more on the people in my life. I get so wrapped up in my ambitions that I neglect those I love and am oblivious to their needs. I'd like to change that this year."

"Well," said Christine, "My resolution is to focus _more_ on my goals! I've known for years that I want to be a doctor, yet I've been content to just float along, not doing anything about it, and now suddenly I'm seventeen years old and I haven't made one move toward medical school! This year, that's what I'm going to do."

Marigold was slightly surprised. "You want to be a doctor?" Somehow, Christine didn't seem the type to her mind—although, she granted, Aunt Marigold wouldn't exactly seem the type to most people.

Christine beamed. "A missionary doctor, to be exact. I want to help those who can't help themselves, and show them God's love through my actions."

Marigold was shocked yet further. To her mind, missionaries—except for Dr. Violet Meriwether—were old people, and they walked around preaching endlessly about the needs of the heathens. To see a young lady like Christine talk calmly about being a doctor _and_ a missionary was really shattering all her preconceived ideas.

Before her mind fully wrapped around all that, David spoke up. "I'm not really making any resolutions this year."

"Perfect already, eh?" teased Mr. Morgan.

David grinned. "Not hardly. No, I just want to be open to go wherever I'm led this year. See what's in store for me without forcing circumstances to mold to my expectations."

"I have so many things I'd like to improve about myself I hardly know where to start," said Murray thoughtfully. "I guess my main one is somewhere along the lines of Sophie's. I also get wrapped up in my own thoughts and am oblivious to the needs of those around me. I'm a selfish person, really, and I'd rather not be, if I can possibly help it."

"I don't think you're selfish," said Marigold without thinking, her mind on the events of earlier, as well as the Christmas dance.

Murray gave a half-smile. "It takes me a long time to wake up to the fact that someone might need my help—or friendship."

Marigold didn't know what to say. She felt herself blushing, and was relieved when Sylvia spoke up.

"I suppose," she said with a heavy sigh, "That I really ought to get some direction in my life. I don't know what I want to do or who I want to be or anything. I don't have any particular ambitions, but I guess I probably should. So that'll be my resolution this year. What about you, Mari?"

With difficulty, Marigold dragged her thoughts back to the present. "Uh—my resolution. Well, I'd like to—well, to be more discerning, and to have more backbone. To not be taken in by everything and everyone, and to know when to stand my ground and when to graciously back down."

Mrs. Morgan laughed. "That's a lifelong task, my dear, but I think it's good that you're aware of it and working on it now. My resolution is to seek out where I can be of use to others. I'd like to help young girls reach their potential somehow, or at least be an encouragement to them."

"And as for me," joked Mr. Morgan, "My resolution is to not be as mean to all the students I teach this year. Shrewsbury High students will be safe this year at least."

"Oh but Dad, you'll be so boring then," objected David.

As they were all laughing, the clock ponderously struck: one…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten…eleven…twelve!

"What a good way to welcome in the New Year!" cried Christine, sitting upright. "With laughter and love!"

Mr. Morgan got up and opened the door wide, letting the cold air rush in. "Welcome, New Year," he said. "1932, what do you bring for us all?"


	9. Growing Up

_Cloud of Spruce_

_Harmony Harbor_

_March 10, 1932_

_My very dear daughter,_

_Happy sixteenth birthday! I do so wish I could be there for your sixteenth birthday, dearest of daughters. I miss you more than I can say._

_Grandmother and I have already sent a package out for your birthday, but yesterday as I was looking for some old linens in the attic, I opened up the wrong trunk and discovered it was full of your father's old things. Grandmother had saved them all. Most were just old clothes and such, but at the very bottom I found this, and somehow, it seemed a far better birthday present than anything else I could send. Happy birthday, Marigold. _

_Much love,_

_Mother._

Marigold looked at the package that had accompanied the letter wonderingly. She didn't have _anything_ that had belonged to Leander—not one thing. She found that her fingers were trembling as she untied the string and opened the brown paper.

It was a simple little black book, with nothing on the cover. Marigold opened it reverently, to be greeted by these penned words:

_January 1, 1900_

_Old Aunt Agatha gave me a journal for Christmas this year. Don't know why; it seems an awful girly present. Oh well. Suppose I'll write in it now and then. Don't want to waste it, anyway._

_It's the turn of the century! It's a grand thing to be alive for an occasion like this. Lots of things are going to happen in this century, one of which will be the cure of lots of loathsome diseases by Doctor Leander Lesley, world-famous M.D. It's a family tradition to always have a doctor in every generation; I guess I'll be this one's. I may only be thirteen, but I _know_ I'll be a good doctor. Next year I start studying for Queen's, and after that I'll go on to university, and then to medical school. It's a lot of studying, but it'll be worth it._

Tears filled Marigold's eyes as she flipped through the pages of her father's journal. He hadn't written very regularly, but there was still enough to fill most of the book. As she neared the back, the pages fell open at one entry and a brown rose slipped to the floor. Marigold placed it back between the pages and read what her father had written there.

_February 18, 1915_

_Lorraine Winthrop is the sweetest thing I have ever seen. After Clem died, and our baby, I didn't think I'd ever want to love again. My heart, I thought, was buried with her. Ah, but I was just a boy when I married Clem—really, still a boy when she died. My word! Was it really four years ago? Sometimes it seems like it was just yesterday—and then others it seems as though it was a lifetime ago._

_But I was talking about Lorraine. I met her last week, at my sister Anne's anniversary party. She is a shy, quiet little thing, with the most beautiful golden hair I've ever seen, and eyes like—like dew-wet irises. Her feet and ankles are exquisite. Oh, everything about her is lovely. And sweet! I've never met anyone so sweet. She would never say anything mean or unkind about anyone, and let me tell you, that is rare indeed, especially around the Lesleys. Just listen to Grandmother sometime. I talked to her most of the night—I even told her how rotten I feel about not being able to go off and fight like the rest of our men. I'll never forget what it was like to be told my chest wasn't strong enough to fight. Oh, what's the use of being a doctor if I can't even make myself well enough to help purge the world of evil? I've felt like a slacker ever since. But Lorraine—Lorraine just smiled at me, and said it was good that some stayed behind, or else who would be left to start the world anew? For the first time since this rotten war started, I felt like a _man_ again. I think I love her. I really do._

_Clem, you don't mind, do you? What we had was beautiful, true, but we were so young. It was all such a long time ago. I wouldn't have wanted you to be lonely forever, had I been the one to go. I'll never forget you—or our baby—our little nameless child. She has a name now, hasn't she? You have her to keep you company—but I'm all alone. No, I'm sure you don't mind. Your mother will—but you aren't the jealous sort. You'll let me go._

_Lorraine wore a rose in her hair at Anne's. Toward the end of the night it fell out—I stole it—I'll put it in here, to mark the night I met my future wife. I hope God gives us many beautiful years together—with lots of children—children to make old Cloud of Spruce young again—children to carry on our legacy, to make the world a better place—oh, we'll do our best for God and Canada._

Marigold had tears streaming unheeded down her face as she finished reading. Her father—the father she'd always loved but never known—she felt so close to him now! She could see him clearly in her mind, a strong, laughing face, a face that knew pain and suffering but carried on with laughter and love. She clutched the journal to her chest and closed her blue eyes.

"Oh—Father," she whispered. "I wish you were still alive. I think so much would have been different. We might have been a family like the Morgans. You would have taught me so much. I miss you—I don't think I ever realized how much until now! I'll read all of your journal—I'll learn about you and your values and what you believed—and I'll make you proud, I promise I will. You won't be disappointed in me—Dad."

She set the book down and looked at it again. There was only one more entry after the one regarding Lorraine.

_February 20, 1917_

_I'm dying. I've suspected it for weeks now, but today I'm sure. It's this pneumonia. I won't be recovering from it, not this time. The specialist gave me all sorts of medical mumbo-jumbo, trying to give me hope, but I've been a doctor long enough. I know the truth. This weak chest of mine has finally gotten the best of me._

_Oh Lorraine! It hurts so much to think of leaving you and our baby. I hope—I pray I'll live long enough to see our child's face. What will it be, I wonder? A son, to carry on the Lesley name? I promise, I won't make you name him Leander, although Lee might be nice. What _was_ Grandfather thinking when he named me? Or will it be a daughter, a sweet thing like her mother, to delight her daddy's eyes? Either way, we'll love him or her. Somehow—I'm not sure why—I think it's a wee girlie. I hope she has her mama's hair and eyes. You'll raise her to be strong and faithful, won't you? Mother and Grandmother will teach her the Lesley traditions—no fear of that—but it'll be up to you to temper them with wisdom and humor and common sense. And encourage her to use her imagination, dearest. Mother has none, and therefore thinks it unnecessary. But you and I know differently. Oh, how I wish I could be there with you to watch her grow! I missed the chance with my first daughter—she died before even being named. And I'll miss this one too. But I'll be watching from heaven, every day, to make sure the two of you are all right. And sometimes, if you feel a breeze brush your cheek on a still day, know that it's me, reminding you both how much I love you. _

_God, if I didn't trust that You know what You are about, I'd be tempted to question Your wisdom in taking me now. What good will I be to my wife and child dead? I'm not afraid to die—but I hate so to leave them. I am trying to trust in You, however, and I'll not complain about what You've ordained. Lorraine, Lorraine! I love you so!_

That was all. There was nothing else written in the book.

Marigold knew that there was a lot to do that day—Aunt Edna and Cousin Mira were planning a sixteenth birthday party for her in the evening—Sylvia and Sophie were coming over after breakfast to help—but before she could do anything else, she knelt down beside her bed and whispered a prayer.

"God, help me to live up to my full potential. Help me to become the person _You_ want me to be—and Dad wanted me to be—not bound by anyone else's expectations or wishes. Help me to be strong—to be faithful—to live a worthy life. God, help me not to waste it! Thank You, thank You so much, for letting me see this glimpse of my father. I won't forget his words—I won't let him down."

Then she got up, went over to her desk, took out a sheet of notepaper and a pen, and wrote this simple letter.

_Misty Hollow_

_Blair Water_

_March 11, 1932_

_Dear Aunt Marigold,_

_I think I want to become a doctor, like you, and like my father. What should I do to get started?_

_Love always,_

_Marigold._


	10. Troubles and Tangles

Grandmother wasn't too pleased about Marigold's new ambition, but everyone else was pleased. Aunt Edna took most of the credit for the new determination in the girl's eye, Aunt Marigold immediately sent a thick letter full of advice and suggestions, Uncle Klon took Lorraine to Charlottetown to register Marigold at Queen's for the fall term, and Cousin Mira started planning a school wardrobe. It was decided, albeit with reluctance on Grandmother's part, that Marigold would take her two years at Queen's, and then teach until she could afford university and medical school. It meant a great deal of work, but Marigold was confident she could pull through it.

Mickey approved of it as well. "Folks has got to earn their own way in this world. You can't go through life expecting everything to be handed to you on a silver plate. Being a doctor is a noble goal, and you've got enough grit to make it happen."

Marigold was inordinately pleased at his commendation. Somehow, over the past six months, Mickey's opinion had come to mean more to her than anyone else's. Gwennie had written and expressed with her usual frankness that she thought Marigold was an idiot to want to "work with all sorts of disgusting diseases and whiny sick people," and had mentioned as an aside that Sid "thought girls with ambition were pathetic." Marigold just laughed them off. She couldn't believe there was ever a time when Budge—Sid's—view shaped her every thought. Mickey, Sylvia, Murray—those were the people whose opinions mattered now, though even if they didn't approve, she still would have gone ahead and pursued medicine. Marigold Lesley was an independent woman!

"You're not really going to go back out to sea—at least not until I'm gone, are you, Mickey?" she asked. The two of them were working in the garden, clearing away the dead leaves and preparing for spring.

He shrugged. "I ain't too sure. Sometimes I think I'll go, but then other I like it here jest fine. Spring in P.E.I. is a grand thing—it'd be a shame to miss it."

"Indeed it would," Marigold agreed solemnly, though her dimpling cheeks gave her away.

Mickey glanced at her sideways out of dark eyes, and laughed. "Now jest why is it so important to you that I stay? You've done everything in your power to keep me here."

Marigold blushed. "You're one of my dearest friends, Mickey. It just wouldn't seem right around here with you gone—besides, who would give me advice?"

"Oh, I dunno—maybe Murray Kent?" he inquired with a too-innocent face.

Marigold's blush deepened. "I don't know what you are talking about," she said with dignity. Then she laughed. "No, I can't keep a secret from you. I _do_ admire Murray—and respect his opinion—but I don't know how he feels about me, and I'm certainly not going to make an idiot of myself over any man ever again!" ending with sudden venom as she remembered Charlie.

Mickey's mouth turned down in a scowl. "That scoundrel. I surely do wish I'd had the chance to thrash him. He and his sister think they're jest too good for the Island and all the honest folk here."

Marigold was surprised. She'd never heard Mickey speak so venomously about anybody. "Anyway," she spoke quickly, trying to change the subject. "No matter how I feel about Murray, you still give the best advice, and are still one of my closest friends, and I would hate to see you go. _Why_ do you want to leave?"

Mickey shrugged and began raking faster. "No reason. It's time, that's all. I don't like staying in one place too long."

Marigold eyed him shrewdly. "No, that's not your real reason. I know you too well, Mickey. What's the _true_ cause?"

He looked even more uncomfortable now. "You've no need to pry into my reasons, Marigold. Let it go."

Marigold's blue eyes opened wide with surprise. "I didn't mean to pry," she said slowly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

He looked at her hurt face and relented. "I'm sorry, Mari. I shouldn't 'a spoken so harsh. It's jest—it ain't something I'm real comfortable talking about."

Marigold _didn't_ want to pry, but she was truly concerned for her friend. "If you don't want to talk about it, then I won't make you. Your private business is yours alone. But—you always are so helpful to me, and always know just how best to help me work through things. I wish you'd let me help you now."

He looked down. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you a bit about it—but not a word to anyone else, mind?"

"On my honor," Marigold answered solemnly.

Mickey couldn't quite meet her eyes as he started talking. "It's jest—it's jest that there's this girl, is all, and I've fallen for her, but there's no way I could ever be with her. She's out o' my league, and I've got sense enough to know it, but I can't help how I feel about her, so I'd be better off out o' here altogether, where I don't have to see her all the time."

This all was delivered rapidly, in an embarrassed undertone, but Marigold still caught every word. Her first thought was that he meant _her_, but she immediately dismissed that as nonsense. She and Mickey were far too good of friends for him to fall in love with her. She spoke up briskly. "Out of your league? Mickey, that's ridiculous! You're kind and wise and good, and any girl would be honored to be with you. Just because you haven't had much of an education is no reason to assume you have no chance with her. If she's worth anything at all, she'll recognize your worth and love you for who you are, not for what you have."

He looked up and smiled sheepishly. "I reckon you're one o' the few who'd say that—not that I don't appreciate it. And it ain't so much the girl who would be the problem as her family. They think the sun sets and rises in her, and they wouldn't want a ragged old fellow like me to be with her."

"Well, if you love her and she loves you, what does anyone else matter?" queried Marigold with supreme scorn. "You two are the only ones who are important."

Mickey stubbornly shook his head. "It's easy for you to say things like that, Marigold. You've never had to deal with folks thinking you're lower than dirt, just 'cause you don't use proper grammar and smoke a pipe and such. No, I wouldn't even dare to dream of this girl—besides, she's so pure and sweet that she deserves the best there is. Me and her family agree on that, I reckon."

Marigold recognized defeat when she saw it. She sighed heavily. "I don't think anyone could find better than you, Mickey, but I know better than to argue with you when you get that mulish look in your eyes. I won't say another word about it."

Mickey made a comic face. "Who looks like a mule?"

They both broke into giggles, and the matter was dropped. Still, Marigold wondered and worried about it a great deal in private. She longed to talk it over with Sylvia, but she had promised not to say anything, and she wouldn't have felt comfortable telling Mickey's private feelings to anyone else anyhow.

* * *

In the meantime, March went out like a lamb, and April entered in a flurry of rainstorms. It rained almost every day that month, keeping all but the bravest souls trapped inside. Marigold and Sylvia still made great efforts to see each other every week, but for the most part it was a grand time for study. The more Marigold learned about the field of medicine, the more fascinating she found it. Lorraine had discovered a great many of Leander's old schoolbooks from when he was in medical school, and mailed them along to her daughter. Marigold treasured these, next to her father's journal, above everything else she owned. Not only were they still helpful, every now and then Lee would have penciled in a personal note in the margins. These unexpected pieces of her father's handwriting and personality were dearer than gold to Marigold.

April swam out and May came in with the promise of spring and sunshine. Ilse Miller showed up alone at Hope Fulfilled one day for an impromptu visit with Emily Kent. Marigold, going over there the first day the roads were dry enough to walk on, saw Charlie's mother in their small kitchen and hurried up the stairs, flushing angrily. Sylvia met her at the top of the stairs and ushered her into her small room quickly.

"What is Mrs. Miller doing here?" Marigold asked as Sylvia shut the door behind them.

"She says she just missed Mother, but I accidentally overheard a part of their conversation yesterday, and she's getting worried about—well, about Charlie." Sylvia watched her friend's face closely.

Marigold did feel a small pang at the mention of his name, but it was only of embarrassment, not of romance. "What's wrong with him?" she asked, pleased to find her voice sounded normal.

Sylvia looked slightly relieved for a moment, but then worry clouded her clear brow. "Well, apparently he's been spending more and more time with a really bad group of friends—skipping classes and staying out all hours of the night, and drinking, and just really turning wild. He won't listen to his parents anymore. Uncle Perry is furious, but he doesn't know how to go about curbing Charlie's behavior. Aunt Ilse has been hoping it's just a phase, but now even she's starting to worry, so she wanted to talk with Mother."

"You picked all that up from overhearing _part_ of their discussion?" asked Marigold in amazement.

Sylvia had the grace to blush. "Well, it originally was an accident, but once I heard what they were talking about, I had to listen to the rest of it."

Marigold remembered something Murray had said about the Miller children. "Rosy and Charlie have been raised to think they're above everybody else, and to do whatever they please. It's no wonder Charlie now refuses to heed his parents. He's never had to control himself or do anything he didn't want to, ever."

"Well said, Mari," agreed Sophie, coming in and closing the door behind her. "Aunt Ilse and Uncle Perry have no one to blame for this but themselves—although I don't suppose it would do any good to tell them so."

"I do feel bad for them," said Marigold impulsively. "I thought I hated them, but I guess I don't. I'm sorry they're in a place like this. It must be dreadful."

"I'm worried about Rosy," said Sylvia. "We haven't spoken since—well, not since Christmas, but she's still my friend, and I know she idolizes Charlie. She always follows his example in everything. If he goes bad, there's a quite good chance that she will too."

Sophie sighed. "I'm so thankful we have our parents. I can't imagine being raised by anyone else or learning different principles."

For the first time, Marigold was devoutly thankful for her upbringing. She'd always resented slightly the interference of her grandmothers—although not Old Grandmother so much—and the rest of her clan in how she was raised, but despite everything, they had instilled in her a strong set of values.

"It's not just how you were raised, though," said Sylvia unexpectedly. "Some of it just has to do with knowing right and wrong, instinctively, inside you. I mean, look at Mickey. He has the strongest morals of anyone I know. He _always_ knows what is right, and he always does it, no matter how unpleasant it may be. And he has no idea who his parents are or anything, and he didn't get any kind of an upbringing!" she concluded triumphantly.

Sophie smiled wryly and slid off the bed. "When Sylvia drags Mickey into a conversation, the rest of us know better than to continue arguing. She holds him up as perfection in everything." She nodded to them both and exited.

A rosy hue crept up Sylvia's ivory neck. Marigold stared at her in wonderment, a wild suspicion suddenly shooting through her brain. Could _Sylvia_ be the girl…? She spoke impulsively. "Sylvie, do you have a—a _crush_ on Mickey?"

"Oh please, Mari, don't tease me," Sylvia implored. "I know you probably think it's ridiculous—he's so much older and has done so many things, while I'm just a simple little country girl, but I can't help it! He's just—he's everything I admire, and he has become such a good friend…I didn't even realize it until a few weeks ago. I knew that I admired and respected him, but it wasn't until you were talking about him leaving to go back out to sea that I knew—I _knew_ how I felt. It's hopeless, I know, but I can't help it!"

Marigold flung her arms around her friend. "Sylvie, I think you'd be perfect for Mickey! You're so sweet and dreamy, and he's so practical and clever—you two are just right for each other."

"Really?" Sylvia began to smile. "You're not just saying that?"

"Of _course_ not."

Sylvia's face fell. "Not that it matters. I'm sure he wouldn't dream of falling for me. In his eyes, I'm just a little girl. He's going to go away to sea, and I'll never see him again. He'll probably fall in love with some clever, sophisticated foreign girl."

"If Mickey sailed to every port around the globe, he couldn't find a sweeter girl with a lovelier soul," declared Marigold positively. "Sylvie, maybe he likes you but doesn't dare admit it." She spoke rather hesitantly now, not wanting to give away Mickey's secret in encouraging Sylvia. "If I just dropped a few hints to him…"

Sylvia sprang up and grabbed her arm forcefully. "Marigold Lesley, don't you dare! If you ever breathe a word of this to him, I—I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be drastic! You can't tell him how I feel. I'd rather see him leave here tomorrow than have him know. _Promise_ me, Mari!"

"I promise, I promise," said Marigold hurriedly. She couldn't help but feel rather vexed. Here were two of her dear friends, pining away for each other, and with a few words she could bring them together, but she was honor-bound to keep silent. For a moment, she was slightly annoyed with Sylvia, but then, looking at her friend's passionate face, she relented. After all, if someone threatened to tell Murray how she was starting to feel about him, she would be just as alarmed. She sighed.

"What a mess this world is," she murmured.

Sylvia sat back down next to her. "I know. It's a good thing the Lord is in charge of it, or I'd be afraid that everything was just happening wrong."

Marigold agreed whole-heartedly, and the two sat gloomily beside each other, each wrapped up in her own preoccupations.


	11. A Well Intentioned Mess

"Mickey," Marigold said seriously. "I need to ask you something very important, and I don't want you to get upset."

The young man grinned. "I'll try my hardest not to bite your head off. What's up?"

Marigold drew in a deep breath. "Is Sylvia Kent the girl you're in love with?"

Mickey's face darkened. For a moment he looked as though he was furious, but then he took one or two deep breaths and calmed down. "What makes you ask that?"

"_Are_ you?" Marigold persisted.

Mickey smiled then—a bitter, twisted smile with no good humor in it whatsoever. "Is it that obvious? Written on my face, I reckon, so the whole world can see it and laugh at me."

"No—no!" cried Marigold, distressed. She laid an earnest hand on Mickey's arm. "It's not obvious. I just—I guessed, that's all."

Mickey shrugged. "Well, now you know. Do you understand _now_ why I have to leave? Sylvia Kent is the last girl in the world for me. I can't—I _can't_ stay on here and see her fall in love with some other fellow."

This was shaky ground. For a moment, Marigold's courage quailed, but she remembered the wistful look in Sylvia's eyes and spoke. "Mickey, I don't think you should leave. I think you should have faith in yourself and in Sylvie's judgment. If you really love her, go to her parents and ask for permission to court her. How could you look at yourself in the mirror for the rest of your life if you don't at least try?"

"Now look here, Mari," said Mickey, straightening up from planting flowers and facing her squarely. "Sylvia is fifteen. I've a little over a score o' years to my credit. Even if there weren't no class difference—and there is, no matter what you in your innocence want to think—she's far too young for a rugged old sailor like me."

"Oh yes, five or six years is _such_ an insurmountable difference," agreed Marigold sarcastically. She rolled her eyes. "Mickey, you're making excuses. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were afraid! Listen, if you're planning on leaving anyway, why not at least confess your feelings before you go? That way, if she rejects you, you can sail away and never come back or think of her again. And if she doesn't, why then everything is perfect!"

He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "You've caught me there. Drat it, I can't think of one single good argument against that one." He paused a moment. "You _really_ think I'd have a chance with her?"

Marigold smiled smugly. "I'm sure of it."

"Well then—well, durn it, I'll give it a try. If it don't work, though, I'm out of here on the first ship to sail away, and you're never to tell another soul about it, mind?"

Marigold was amazed at the fierceness unrequited love brought out in people. "Not a word." She went inside to clean up for dinner, leaving a suddenly nervous Mickey behind.

The next morning, Marigold innocently wandered over to Hope Fulfilled. She wouldn't admit, even to herself, that she wanted to be there when Mickey came by, but the thought _was_ in the back of her mind.

"Mari!" Murray was coming out the front door just as Marigold came up the walk. All thoughts of Sylvia and Mickey flew out of her head at his deep voice and kind eyes.

"Good morning," she said shyly.

He smiled at her. "I'm glad you're here. I have wonderful news—at least, I think it is wonderful."

"Oh, what?" she cried, keenly interested.

A proud expression crept over his finely chiseled face. "I finally finished my novel."

"That's wonderful!"

Marigold knew—for Murray had told her all about it—that alongside the short stories and poems he constantly wrote, he had also been at work for years on a novel. He'd never let anyone read it, but he'd told her what it was about—a man returning from the War to his old home, only to find his wife had left him, his family had forgotten about him, and his friends had deserted him; and his journey from despair and hopelessness to find joy and fulfillment apart from all the things he once thought he needed.

"I'm a little scared to send it out for publication, though. What if the publishers don't like it?"

"Of course they'll like it," said Marigold with supreme confidence. "What sort of idiots would they be if they didn't?"

Murray laughed. "Yes, but just because I think it's good doesn't mean anyone else will."

"Why don't you send it to your Uncle Dean?" suggested Marigold. "He could read it over and tell you if it needed improvement, and if it would be likely to get published."

Murray's face lit up. "What a wonderful idea! Thank you, Marigold. That's just what I'll do." Brimming over with excitement, he absently dropped a kiss on her cheek before hurrying off down the lane.

Marigold stood stock-still, her fingers pressed to her cheek. "Why did he do that? What does it mean?" she whispered to herself.

A glad call from Sylvia brought her mind back to the reason she was there. She hurried inside and tried to put Murray out of her mind—a nearly impossible task.

* * *

The girls visited in the kitchen for quite a while, laughing and joking with Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Miller and Sophie. Marigold didn't _quite_ like Mrs. Miller, but she had to admit that Rosy's mother was jolly and fun. She was in the midst of telling them a story from when she and Mrs. Kent had been in high school together and gone canvassing the countryside for newspaper subscriptions when a knock sounded on the door.

To the others, no doubt, the knock sounded like any other knock, but to Marigold, it was fraught with importance. Her heartbeat sped up as Mrs. Kent answered it.

Sure enough, Mickey was standing on the doorstep, dressed in his Sunday best, his face beet red from embarrassment. "Good morning, ma'am," he said awkwardly. "I—I was wondering if I might have a word with you and Mr. Kent."

Mrs. Kent looked surprised, but answered graciously. "Of course, Mickey. Come right in. Sophia, would you go call your father? He's working in his studio."

Marigold stood up from the table, dragging Sylvia along with her. "We'll just be running along," she announced to the room at large, before hurrying out the door.

"Oh Mari," gasped Sylvia, once they were safely in the hall. "What's he doing here? What can it mean?"

Marigold couldn't tell her the truth, but she gave her friend a hug. "What do you think, you goose? He's certainly not here to discuss Aunt Edna's garden." She bit her lower lip, wondering if, in these circumstances, it would be right to listen at the keyhole. She heroically resisted the temptation, however, though she did decide that it would be acceptable to wait in the hall, where they could at least hear people's tones.

After showing her father in to the kitchen, Sophie joined them, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement. "You'd think Aunt Ilse would have enough sense to leave them alone," she hissed.

"Oh hush, hush," implored Sylvia, nearly dancing in anxiety. Marigold reached over and squeezed her hand.

The three girls listened in breathless stillness to the murmur of voices from the other room. First came Mickey's, rising and falling with a great deal of earnestness and passion. Then Mrs. Kent spoke in a surprised tone, and Mickey answered. Sylvia bit down hard on her wrist to keep from gasping.

Mr. Kent spoke next, sounding stern, but then Mrs. Kent spoke again, this time for quite a while. Marigold's own heart was thumping rapidly. This seemed encouraging!

Mickey spoke once more, his voice pleading. Mr. Kent spoke again, his voice grave. Mickey answered, and then the door shut. Marigold ran to the window to see Mickey walking down the path. He didn't look triumphant, but he wasn't defeated, either.

"What happened?" gasped Sylvia, taking her wrist, now red and covered in bite marks, out of her mouth. "What did he ask? What did they say? Why did he leave?"

"Calm down, Sylvia," said Sophie in a low voice. "We'll find out soon enough."

Sure enough, Mrs. Kent flung open the door. "Sylvia!" she started to call in a loud voice, stopping short at the sight of the three girls huddled together in the hallway. A smile threatened the corners of her mouth, but all she said was, "Ah. Very well, come on in, all three of you."

They entered the kitchen meekly. Mr. Kent was standing by the stove, his finely drawn face, so similar to his son's, set in a stern line. Mrs. Miller, her mouth pursed up unpleasantly, was still seated at the tables, and Mrs. Kent gravely sat down next to her. The three girls stood together, Sophie and Marigold on either side of Sylvia, holding her hands for support.

"Sylvia," Mr. Kent said gently, his deep voice soft. "Mickey Lewis was just here asking for permission to court you."

Sylvia gasped out loud. She raised trembling hands to cover her mouth. "Wh-what did you say?" she whispered, lowering them slowly.

"We asked him to give us some time to discuss the matter," answered Mrs. Kent. "After all, this is very unexpected. You are rather young, and neither your father nor I were quite prepared to have any young man showing serious interest in you for a few years yet."

"Especially _such_ a young man," muttered Mrs. Miller in a barely audible aside.

"But Mother," spoke up Sophie. "Didn't you tell us that Un—that someone proposed to you when you were fifteen? And that you knew that Father was the only man for you when you were fourteen? Surely Sylvia's age shouldn't be any great consideration."

"Enough, Sophie," said Mrs. Kent. "This is your sister's affair, not yours. Sylvia, what do you think of Mickey?"

"I—I think very highly of him, Mother," said poor Sylvia. She cast one tortured glance at Marigold, as if asking _why_ this couldn't be easier.

Mrs. Miller let out an un-ladylike snort. "Emily, surely you aren't thinking of letting that—_person_ actually court—(_what_ a Victorian phrase!)—your Sylvia?"

"She _is_ old enough to know her own heart, Ilse," said Mrs. Kent. "As long as Mickey is willing to wait for several years to think about marriage, I don't see why not, do you, Teddy?"

Mr. Kent looked grave. "I still don't care for the idea. We know nothing about this young man. we don't know who his parents are, where he comes from, what he's done in his life, anything. I can't hand my daughter over to just _anyone_."

Marigold drew a deep breath and spoke up. "I'm sure Aunt Edna would be happy to speak for Mickey's character, Mr. Kent."

"That should be good enough, shouldn't it, Dad?" interposed Sophie again, seeing that Sylvia was apparently incapable of speech. "After all, it's not who a person's parents were that is important, it is who _they_ are."

"Sophie," Mrs. Kent was beginning to reprimand, when Mr. Kent spoke.

"I suppose so. After all, Emily, we don't want to do to our daughter what your grandfather did to your parents. Mickey is a fine young man. It will take me some time to get used to the idea of my baby being old enough to have a young man, but that is the curse of fathers everywhere, I suppose. Sylvia, you have my blessing."

A smile started to blossom on Sylvia's face, but before it could fully develop, Mrs. Miller stood up, arms akimbo. "Emily Byrd Starr Kent! Are you out of your mind? Would you let a _hired hand_ marry your daughter? That Lewis boy isn't possibly good enough for Sylvia!"

"_You_ married a hired boy, Ilse," Mr. Kent pointed out, a hint of either laughter or bitterness behind his voice—Marigold couldn't tell which.

"Perry was not a hired boy! He _made_ something of himself—he rose above his lowly beginnings. Not that Lewis boy! All he'll ever be is Edna Babcock's gardener. How will he support Sylvia? Where will they live? In the chamber above the kitchen?" The sarcasm in her voice was killing. "He had the unmitigated gall to waltz in here and ask for Sylvia, and you idiots just handed her over to him on a silver platter. Emily B., I never thought you an utter fool until today."

"Aunt Ilse, I don't care how rich or poor Mickey is!" Sylvia cried passionately. "I don't care if he's only a gardener for the rest of his life. It doesn't matter the slightest to me. I've never had any great ambition anyway! Don't you understand? I _love_ him!" She stopped, crimson rushing in over her face.

"You don't know a thing about love, dearie," said Mrs. Miller. She turned back to Mrs. Kent. "At least wait a bit and think it over, Emily. Talk about it with Aunt Elizabeth."

Mrs. Kent hesitated, then nodded. "Yes—she is still the head of the Murray family. It should be discussed with her."

"Why?" cried Sophie. "Mother, you've never cared a whit for what the family wants! If you did, you'd have married Cousin Andrew and never been a writer. If you don't live by their expectations, why should Sylvia?"

"That's enough, Sophia!" said Mr. Kent. "I will not have you speak disrespectfully to your mother."

"I'm not going to make my decision based on what Aunt Elizabeth says," explained Mrs. Kent. "But she does deserve to hear about this first. That is only courteous." She looked over at her husband. "And we might call Dean about it, too."

Mr. Kent looked displeased, but he nodded.

The two of them hurriedly threw on some wraps and went over to New Moon. Mrs. Miller, still fuming under her breath, put on _her_ wraps and left without a word. Sophie and Marigold turned to Sylvia, who was standing stricken, slow tears working down her face.

"It won't work," she moaned softly. "Aunt Elizabeth will never approve, and even sweet Aunt Laura will cluck and fret over it. Uncle Dean—Uncle Dean is still jealous. He doesn't want to share us with anyone. He'll never agree. They'll badger Mother and Father, and convince them, and I'll never be allowed to see Mickey again!" She sat down and buried her face in her arms.

"We don't know that," comforted Sophie, but her voice lacked conviction. Marigold, too, had a sinking feeling. "I have to go to Mickey," she said in a low voice.

"Go—go," said Sylvia suddenly, lifting her head. "Tell him—tell him how I feel! Tell him that no matter what, I'll always love him. Oh Mari, hurry! Tell him!"

"I will," promised Marigold, speeding away on light feet.

As she turned into Misty Hollow's lane, she was confronted by a strange sight: Ilse Miller, hurrying away from the house, pursued by Aunt Edna, who was waving her walking stick and scolding shrilly.

Marigold passed Mrs. Miller without a word and caught up with Aunt Edna. "What's going on?" she asked, completely bemused.

"You might well ask," snapped Aunt Edna, her tiny face all wrinkled up in anger. "That Miller woman has just been here saying dreadful things to our Mickey—all about wanting a rich wife and being a scoundrel and a deceiver, and accusing him of all sort of horrid things." She smiled in sudden satisfaction. "I had a few things of my own to say to her! She won't forget my tongue-lashing for a while, I promise you that. But now Mickey is all upset and saying he won't stay a minute longer, and everything's all kerflummoxed. Marigold, child, do explain things to a poor old woman?"

"It's nothing," explained Marigold, helping Aunt Edna back to the house. "It's just that Mickey is in love with Sylvia Kent, and she with him, and everybody is trying to keep them apart."

"What a fuss over nothing!" said the old lady with superb disdain. "Why shouldn't the children be together if they want? Ooh, I hope that Ilse Miller comes back. I could say a few things about _her_ marriage, let me tell you!"

Marigold left her fuming and hurried to find Mickey. He was in the pine woods behind the house, staring into the distance, his face set with anger. He spoke as soon as he she came into sight, though he didn't turn his head or otherwise acknowledge her presence.

"Don't try to talk me out of it, Mari. I ain't staying around here so that folks can say I'm a no-good scoundrel jest trying to catch a rich wife." He spun to face her, his eyes blazing with so much fury that she took an involuntary step backward. "I _told_ you this would happen! Why'd I ever listen to you? Now look at the mess that's been made."

"I'm sorry," Marigold cried. "But Mickey—Sylvia is in love with you!"

He stood very still. "What?" he whispered.

"She—she wanted me to tell you," Marigold said quickly, stumbling over her words. "She loves you—she doesn't care what other people say or think; she doesn't care that you don't have money or education, she loves you for who you are."

Mickey's eyes slid closed. When he opened them again, the anger was gone, but they still shone with a grim resolution. "It don't make no difference. I can't live with people saying such things about me. Even if she don't care, _I do_. Like you said before, I got to be able to look at myself in the mirror without being ashamed. Well, I can't do that if I let people think I took advantage of her."

Marigold swallowed her words of protest. There was no point in arguing with that much determination. She might as well have tried to argue against the sandstone cliffs. "What will you do?

He flashed a faint imitation of his old bright smile at her. "Jest what I told you I would do if it went wrong. I'll go back out to sea. There's ways and means for a fellow to make his fortune there. I'll make a name for myself, and then I'll come back and claim Sylvia. By then, she'll be old enough to do as she pleases anyhow, and we won't care who turns their noses up at us. As long as I know she's waiting here for me, I'll do whatever it takes, no matter what."

* * *

He left for the harbor the next morning, seeking a berth on any ship sailing out soon. Marigold went over to the Kents to fill Sylvia in on the details. All was in uproar over there. Aunt Elizabeth had risen up in majestic fury against the match. Uncle Dean, showing once again that streak of Priest jealousy, announced that he would cut Sylvia out of his will and never see her again if she persisted with that "Lewis scoundrel." Perry Miller 'phoned from Montreal to warn them against the morals of sailors. Under so much opposition, Mr. and Mrs. Kent withdrew their blessing and announced that under no circumstances was Sylvia to have anything to do with Mickey. Everyone disapproved of the match except Sophie and Murray, who staunchly supported their sister through it all, and the Morgans, who wisely offered no opinion one way or the other.

When Marigold entered the Kent kitchen, she walked into a mess. Mrs. Miller was spewing venom against Mickey and Aunt Edna alike. Sylvia was trying to convince her mother that she didn't care about Uncle Dean's will. Mr. Kent and Murray were in a full-blown argument. Sophie, the only bit of calm, raised her eyebrows wryly at Marigold and shook her head.

Marigold did not speak loudly, but her voice carried an authority in it that sliced through the din like a knife through butter. "Mickey has asked me to inform you," she said, "That he has no intentions of being branded a sneak and rogue. Therefore, he is leaving as soon as possible to make something of himself. He is not withdrawing his suit for Sylvia, merely postponing it until he can offer her something besides his name."

Mr. Kent drew a deep breath. "Well! That settles that, then. A very sensible young man. When he returns—if he returns—with a way to provide for my daughter, I'll be pleased to give him my blessing."

"What?" cried Sylvia. "You chased him away! All of you! I don't care about his status, or his money, or anything like that! All I care about is him. Even poor, he's richer than anyone I know. He's the very best person I've ever met, and you have all tried to take him away from me. How dare you? How _dare_ you?" Her voice broke, and she turned and fled out the door.

Marigold also left. She wandered around for a while aimlessly, berating herself. All she'd wanted to do was make her friends happy, and instead she caused both of them to be more miserable than they'd ever been. What a disaster! She desperately wished she could fix it, but instinct told her that she'd done enough. Whatever happened now was out of her hands.

"I declare this, though," she said aloud, stopping in the middle of the road. "I, Marigold Lesley, will never, ever again, meddle in anyone else's love affair."


	12. Truth and Grace

Mickey had gotten a berth aboard the _Jasmine_, a ship setting off for the Orient—part of the spice trade. He would leave at the end of the week. Marigold's agony, though acute was nothing compared to Sylvia's. Mickey steadfastly refused to see her or speak to her—he said it wouldn't be honorable to pursue their relationship without her parents' permission—so Marigold was the one who broke the news to her. When she finished speaking, Sylvia looked at her wordlessly, and then just turned around and went into her bedroom. Marigold heard the door lock, and went down the stairs, feeling fiercely as though she'd like to hit—something.

Murray joined her on the walk back to Misty Hollow. The uproar had taken a toll on him, as well. His cheeks were hollow, and his dark-blue eyes were rimmed with smoky circles. When Marigold passed the news of Mickey's departure on to him, he shook his head sadly.

"This whole thing is such a mess. If he leaves—I don't know what will happen to Sylvia. She hasn't eaten or slept much at all since—well, since it all began." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I haven't either, for that matter. We're all worried sick over her. I think Mother and Father would relent now, and give them their blessing, just out of concern for her health, but I suppose Mickey wouldn't settle for that."

"No," agreed Marigold sadly. "He wants to be accepted for himself, not as a means to keep Sylvie well." She sighed, and unburdened her soul to Murray. "I think this whole thing is my fault. I'm the one who told Mickey to confess his feelings. If I'd kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened."

Murray patted her hand. "From what I understand, he still would have left the Island, and Sylvia would still be pining away for him. The only difference is, now it's all out in the open. Maybe you _shouldn't_ have said anything, but you can't blame yourself for all this. That's too much responsibility."

Marigold managed a small smile. That was Murray all over—kind, comforting, and yet still painfully honest.

They walked in companionable silence the rest of the way to Misty Hollow. Mickey's lithe figure was silhouetted against the dark green pines as he energetically finished planting the garden, wanting to have all his responsibilities to Aunt Edna taken care of before leaving. Murray sighed. "He is a fine fellow, and I'd be proud to have him as a brother. Do you—do you think he'd mind if I told him so?"

"I think some encouragement would be nice," Marigold replied.

Mickey straightened up as they approached, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Afternoon," he nodded to them.

As Murray began speaking, Marigold turned slightly aside. The shuttered look on Mickey's face and the curtness of his speech was almost too painful to witness.

She suddenly squinted. Flying down the road toward them was a slight, girlish figure.

"Murray!" she said in alarm, recognizing the girl.

He spun around. "Sylvia!" he cried as she approached.

It was obvious something was wrong. Sylvia's face was flushed, and tear-stains marked her cheeks. "Oh Mari—Murray—oh Mickey!"

Mickey made an impulsive move toward her, but stopped himself, pain written all over his countenance. Murray put an arm around his sister's shoulders and steered her to the old stone bench.

"Sit down—calm yourself. What's wrong?"

She drew in one or two deep, shuddering breaths, and finally composed herself enough to speak. "It—it's Uncle Perry," she said, her voice quiet. "Aunt Ilse just got the 'phone call. Apparently Charlie was out—drinking—with his group of friends, and Uncle Perry finally had enough. He—he went down to the nightclub—to bring Charlie home—and there was a fight—someone had a knife"—her voice failed her as she gave in to tears again.

Marigold quickly sat down next to her, wrapping her in a comforting hug. Her own heart was sick for the Millers. What a horrible thing! Sylvia buried her face in Marigold's shoulder and sobbed for a while before straightening back up. She brushed her black hair out of her flushed face.

"He's in the hospital—in Montreal," she continued. "The doctors say there is a chance—but it's very slim. Aunt Ilse is wild—simply wild. She and Mother are on their way to the ferry now. Mother's going with her to Montreal. She says Aunt Ilse can't possibly be alone at a time like this. Rosy—Rosy's coming here to stay with us; and Charlie—nobody knows where he is. He took his father to the hospital and hasn't been seen since. Aunt Ilse said—she said if she saw him—she'd wring his neck. Oh Mari, it's all so—ugly! How could this happen?"

Marigold rocked her back and forth, making comforting noises. She wished desperately there was something she could say, but nothing came to mind. How _could_ you console somebody over something like this? She looked up at Mickey in mute appeal, but his face seemed frozen in some kind of internal struggle. Without even seeming to remember that they were still there, he turned abruptly and went out back, toward the pine woods.

Murray's face was frozen in shock. "Uncle Perry—dying," he said in a dull voice. "And Charlie"—he shook his head hopelessly. "I haven't forgiven him for—this winter—but I never wanted to see him end up like this." He sat down next to them. "What are we going to do?"

Sylvia was still crying, but softly now, under control. "I've been so angry with Aunt Ilse and Uncle Perry—I know they were the biggest influences on Mother and Father against Mickey—but now I would do anything to not have had this happen—anything!"

"I know," said Marigold miserably, giving up the idea of being comforting and joining in the sorrowing whole-heartedly. "I've wished and wished that something bad would happen to Charlie—that he'd get his comeuppance! And I've thought such spiteful things against Rosy. But I didn't think it would be anything like _this_. Now I feel like the worst person in the world, like I wanted this to happen!"

Somehow, her trembling voice was all that Murray needed to snap out of his trance. "Nonsense," he said resolutely, yet with a slight shake to his voice still. "None of us would have asked for this to happen. We aren't to blame for Charlie's recklessness—even he isn't to blame for the other fellow's knife. Sitting around and moping about it won't do us any good. Sylvia, we should get home and see what we can do to help Mother. Marigold"—

"Just tell me if there's anything I can do to help," she said, standing up and speaking firmly.

"For right now, just pray," he answered softly.

"Count on it," she said. She bent over and helped Sylvia to her feet. "Don't fret, Sylvie darling," trying to speak cheerfully. "I'm sure it won't turn out to be as bad as it sounds now. Have faith, dearest."

Sylvia managed a wan smile. "I will. It was just—hard—coming on me suddenly like that. Especially on top of—everything else."

As if on cue, the three of them automatically turned their eyes to the pine woods, but there was no sign of Mickey. Marigold wondered what on earth he was doing back there.

The Kents left, Murray assisting his stumbling sister. Marigold remained in place for a few more moments, and then fell to her knees, regardless of mud and cold. "Oh God," she prayed aloud. "Please don't let it be as bad as it sounds. _Please_ let it be all right."

* * *

But it wasn't all right. In fact, the news just got worse and worse. Rosy arrived on the earliest possible train, passing her mother and Mrs. and Mr. Kent in the night on _their_ way to Montreal. Mr. Kent was trying to locate Charlie, but without much success, while Mrs. Kent devoted her efforts to supporting Mrs. Miller.

Sophie took over running the Kent household, with help from Sylvia. Murray helped out as well, looking and feeling utterly helpless and useless. He wanted very much to be in Montreal with his father, looking for Charlie, but Mr. Kent had instructed him to "take care of the girls at home."

Marigold, thinking it was kindest to leave them alone, stayed away for the first several days. She went back to working around the house with Cousin Mira and Aunt Edna, but her thoughts were constantly at Hope Fulfilled.

That is, when they weren't with Mickey. He had come inside late the night they'd first heard the news, and had a long, private talk with Aunt Edna. The next morning, with a resumption of his old cheery manner, he left at dawn with a smile and a kiss on the cheek for Marigold, and not a word as to where he was going. The mystery was driving her crazy, but Aunt Edna wasn't saying a word.

Meanwhile, the word from the Montreal hospital just got worse and worse. Perry Miller hovered on a knife edge between life and death, sometimes almost speaking coherently to his wife, who never left his bedside, and then falling into a delirious, feverish dream. He had been overworking himself before all this happened, the doctors told Mrs. Kent, and his body just didn't have the strength to recover from such a dangerous wound.

For days, all of Blair Water held its collective breath and prayed. As the reports grew grimmer, Marigold took to working feverishly outside in the Misty Hollow gardens. She knew that compared to a human life, flowers and plants were not much, but at least it gave her a feeling of accomplishment, and kept her hands busy.

Aunt Edna, watching her as the second week of waiting began, decided it was time for a little interference. She hobbled out to the garden, where Marigold, clad in muddy overalls and an old shirt that Mickey had left behind, was planting furiously.

"You know," the old lady said, leaning on her stick. "I thought you were hoping to become a doctor so you could help people."

Marigold looked up from her work, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I do," she answered simply.

Aunt Edna thumped her stick irritably on the ground. "Then what are you doing moping away, hidden here? Why aren't you helping your friends? You don't have to wait until a pompous man hands you a piece of parchment and reels off a whole string of letters after your name to start being of use to others."

Marigold brushed a strand of hair out of her face, leaving a muddy streak across her cheek. "But what _can_ I do?" she asked, not challengingly, but in a plaintive query. "I feel like I'd be intruding on their grief if I was to go over to the Kents now."

"That sounds remarkably like an excuse to me. It's a well-known fact that you don't like the Millers. You're uncomfortable doing anything nice for them."

"That's not true!" Marigold cried hotly.

"No? Then why are you wandering around here instead of over helping your friends? You could help with meals, or with cleaning, or even just be there to support them, but you're too afraid you'll see that Rose Miller, and you don't want to have to deal with her."

There was a great deal of truth in Aunt Edna's words, and Marigold had sense enough to recognize it. She hadn't consciously been avoiding Rosy, but that had been lurking in the back of her mind, keeping her from doing what she could for them. "But Rosy hates me," she said. "Even if I wanted to help her, she wouldn't want anything to do with me."

"At this point, that child needs as many friends as she can get," Aunt Edna said shrewdly. "And if Mickey can put aside his personal feelings and give up his berth on the _Jasmine_ in order to get to Montreal and search for Charles, then the least you can do is go over and offer a shoulder for Rose to cry on!"

Marigold's eyes widened. "Is that what he did? He never said a word to me!"

"Of course that's what he did! That boy knows about doing what's right, no matter how you feel. Now, are you going to hang around here and continue to destroy my gardens with overwork, or are you going to do the right thing and be a good friend?"

A smile glimmered on Marigold's face. "If you'll excuse me, Aunt Edna," she said demurely. "I think I should go clean up."

She slipped off to the house, leaving Aunt Edna smiling proudly. "Knew she had it in her," she muttered. Then she looked at her ravaged gardens and sighed.

* * *

Marigold was halfway to Hope Fulfilled when she lost her nerve. She _wanted_ to help—she really did—but she was afraid she would just make things worse. Rosy really did hate her, and what if seeing Marigold would cause the other girl to go into hysterics or some such thing? Rumors were already spreading 'round the village of her uncontrolled frenzy and wild tantrums. Marigold decided to slip into Lofty John's bush and collect her courage.

"After all," she whispered to herself as she traversed the Tomorrow Road—_most_ inappropriately named, she always thought, with its huge trees and air of ageless calm, "If Mickey can search the streets of Montreal for Charlie, surely I can face Rosy."

Still, it was a bit of a shock when she rounded the corner of the Tomorrow Road into the heart of the bush and came face to face with the girl in question.

Rosy didn't look anything like the proud, sophisticated city girl she had appeared at Christmas. Her spun-gold hair was pulled severely back, held tight against her head, her amber eyes were dull from weeping, her face was free of any makeup and heavily swollen from tears, and she was dressed in a simple grey dress and an old jacket. Yet for all that, Marigold liked her appearance better now—for the first time, Rosy looked _real._

She looked up sullenly as Marigold came into view. "Oh," she said drearily. "What do _you_ want?"

Despite her ungracious words, Marigold's warm heart swelled with pity. She stopped and replied slowly, "Why…I don't know. Except, maybe, to be your friend, if you want."

It was as if the words were magic. Rosy's eyes filled up with tears again, and she flung herself on Marigold, weeping her heart out on the taller girl's shoulder. Slightly taken aback, Marigold patted her comfortingly on the back.

"There, there," she said, and then could have kicked herself for her inane words. "Don't fret so. It'll come out all right, you'll see. Have faith. God will take care of your father."

Finally, Rosy's tears ceased, and she sat down on a fallen log. Tentatively, Marigold sat next to her. Rosy shook her head and wrung out her handkerchief.

"It's all been so awful," she said, with a sob in her voice. "I know Dad will die—I know it! And Mama—she won't be able to stand it, and everything will just fall apart! I can't stand it!"

Her voice was starting to sound hysterical. Marigold had an instinctive dislike of uncontrolled displays of emotion, and hurried to prevent any outbursts. "I'm sure your dad will get better, Rosy. Some of the best doctors in the world are looking after him."

"But what if he _doesn't_?" Rosy moaned. "I'll have to go through the rest of my life with no father!"

"I've had to go through my whole life without a father," Marigold said quietly.

Rosy looked at her with the first spark of interest she had yet shown. "Really? How do you _bear_ it?"

Marigold smiled a bit sadly. "Well, I still have Mums and Grandmother and the rest of the clan—plus, I just found Dad's old journal and some of his medical books, and it really makes me feel almost like I know him. Actually, you have a lot to be thankful for."

"What do you mean?"

"You've had your father for fifteen years. That's a _lot_ of memories. Even if something happens—and it _won't_—you'll always be able to remember him, and what he was like, and all that. My father died before I was born. I don't even really know what he looked like—except that I have his nose and chin and brow—whatever _that_ tells you."

Rosy managed a watery smile. "I think I heard Mama say once that Lee Lesley was one of the handsomest boys on the part of the Island—and she would have attempted to snag him if she weren't already in love with Dad." She gave a shuddering sigh. "I can tell you—I can't tell Sylvia or Sophie or Murray—but you already think badly of me, so it won't matter. I _don't_ know my father at all. He works _all_ the time, and all I ever see of him is when I'm trying to wheedle a new present out of him, or when he's yelling at Charlie. I get _so_ jealous of Sylvia sometimes—Uncle Teddy is so close to all of them—and I feel like my dad's a stranger. And now he's dying—and I can't even remember the last time I told him I loved him!" Her voice rose to a shriek.

"Hush!" Marigold said authoritatively. Then she stopped, aghast. What kind of a way was _that_ to comfort anybody? However, it did seem to grab Rosy's attention, so Marigold threw caution to the winds and proceeded to follow her instinct.

"Your father knows that you love him. But sitting here feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to do him any good. He would want you to pull yourself together. Your mother is worried sick about him, and she doesn't need to be worried about you too. The best thing you can do right now is buck up."

Rosy's mouth was hanging open. Marigold winced, sure she had just completely unhinged the other girl. Then, to her utter surprise, Rosy laughed.

"Well, Marigold Lesley, you certainly aren't afraid to speak your mind, are you? You know, you're the only person who's ever dared tell me anything uncomplimentary about myself, and this is the second time you've done it? By all rights, I ought to be furious, but instead I'm grateful. I've been acting like a spoiled brat—probably because I _am_ one," she added with unwonted honesty. "Dad and Mama need me to be strong now, and I will!" She tossed her head. "I know people think Rosy Miller can't control herself, but I _can_. I am strong—strong-willed and strong-minded—and I can do anything I put my mind to. I am going to be calm and courageous, and if—_when_—Dad gets better, I will be the very best daughter he ever imagined!"

Marigold laughed as well. "I shouldn't have said all that," she admitted. "It was impatient and unkind, but if it helped, then I guess I'm glad."

Rosy looked at her pensively. "I can't believe you'd be so nice to me, to try to come and comfort me, when I've been so horrid to you. Why?"

Marigold shrugged uncomfortably. "It was the right thing to do."

Rosy impulsively hugged her. "I thought I was jealous of you because Sylvia liked you better—but now I think I was jealous because you're a better person than I, and it made me feel guilty. I'm—I'm sorry."

Marigold had the suspicion that this was the first time Rosy had ever apologized for anything in her entire life. "Forgiven and forgotten," she replied, giving her a squeeze in return. "Now, come on, let's go see if Sophie can get us some lunch."

Rosy made a face. "Now that I'm being so strong and dutiful, I suppose I ought to offer to do the dishes afterwards." She sighed. "I guess I can do it—for Dad."


	13. Good News

Surprise was evident in all the Kents' eyes when Rosy and Marigold walked arm-in-arm back to the house, but nobody said a word about it until after lunch, when Rosy was valiantly struggling with the dishes, and Sophie and Sylvia trying to give advice and hovering over her in an agony that she would break their mother's cherished New Moon plates. Marigold decided she'd seen enough of the domestic difficulties, and drew Murray outside. There, she filled him in on the bare bones of her talk with Rosy.

"I don't want to gossip," she finished, "But I did think you'd want to know that she is making an effort to be a—well, a better person, so that you all can encourage her and help her stay on track."

Murray drew in a deep breath. "Mari, you're a miracle worker. _Thank_ you. It's been hard enough around here with all of _us_ worrying about Uncle Perry. Having to deal with Rosy's hysterics was just making it ten times worse."

"You look so tired," Marigold said sympathetically. Fine lines were etched into the corners of his deep eyes and sensitive mouth, and his skin, always clear, was now close to translucent. She had the impulse to take his head in her lap and smooth away all the worry, but she mastered it before she did anything crazy and un-Lesley-like.

He heaved a great sigh and buried his hands in his pockets. "It's just so difficult," he murmured, almost more to himself than to Marigold. "Father wanted me to be the man of the house, but Sophie is keeping things together more than I. I feel utterly useless…that's almost worse than anything else. If I could just be _doing_ something! But I'm just an aimless dreamer who's good for nothing."

"Nonsense," Marigold said sharply. "I won't have you saying such things about yourself. Your problem, Murray, is that you think very—very _inward_. You look at yourself, and what you can do, and how short you fall of your own expectations. If you'd look _outward_, you'd see what other people need, and how they can be helped, and you won't even think about yourself at all. You'll just do what needs to be done. You're _not_ worthless, and there are _heaps_ of things you can do, but as long as you only look at how short you fall of _your_ perfect ideal, you'll never get anything done at all!"

He was gazing at her with respect. "How do you know so much?"

She blushed. "Well, Mickey's showed me a lot about how to live, but I didn't really apply it to myself until Aunt Edna shook me up a bit. I've been doing the same thing as you—wanting to help, but feeling like _nothing_ I do is going to be good enough, and so not doing anything. But it's better to do something, even if it doesn't seem as important as we would like, than to just sit around and wish for a chance to do something grand and let all sorts of little opportunities to help others pass us by."

Murray smiled gently at her. "Thank you, Marigold." He bent down and dropped a kiss on her cheek, and then turned and went back inside.

Marigold stood for a few minutes, heedless of the biting cold wind. "He kissed me," she whispered, holding her hand to her cheek. "He _kissed_ me!"

* * *

After that, Marigold was over at the Kents every morning to hear the latest news and do what she could to help. She was pleased to see that Murray had a new determined light in his eyes as he went about the daily chores, but confused by his manner toward her. He was perfectly friendly, but gave no indication that the kiss had meant anything at all to him. Marigold _knew_ he wasn't like Charlie, but she did wish she knew what was going on inside his head.

Still, between keeping Rosy's spirits up, keeping Sylvia (who hadn't eaten much at all since the news came through) healthy, and joining forces with Sophie to keep Rosy from destroying the house in her new zeal, Marigold didn't have much time to worry about Murray.

One morning she had taken pity on Sophie and dragged Rosy out for a walk, under the pretence that "your cheeks are getting pale and you need fresh air, dear." Rosy, despite her improved attitude, still had a good deal of vanity. She immediately followed Marigold out. They walked all around the bush, and even wandered into New Moon's orchard. The grounds of New Moon were getting sadly neglected now, with Cousin Jimmy aging so much, but they were still lovely.

"I never really cared about nature," Rosy confessed. "I'd much rather go to the movies or go shopping, but I've always loved New Moon's orchard and Cousin Jimmy's garden. This place is…magic, somehow."

"It reminds me of Cloud of Spruce a bit," said Marigold, looking around with the eyes of one to whom 'home' will always be the loveliest spot on earth. "It's been loved…and has loved…been _lived_ in…soaked up joy and sorrows and tears and laughter…and taken care of its inhabitants."

Rosy shivered. "I declare, Marigold Lesley, you talk just like Murray sometimes."

Marigold laughed. "I've always found magic wherever I could."

Rosy looked around the peaceful old farm wistfully. "For a few moments, I almost forgot about Dad—but even New Moon can't keep reality at bay forever."

Marigold put her arm around the smaller girl and gave her a quick hug. "We must just keep praying, dearest. God will take care of your father."

Rosy scowled. "If He doesn't, I'll never believe in Him again." She glanced sideways at Marigold, as if expecting her to be shocked, but Marigold just smiled sympathetically.

"Mari! Mari—Rosy! Come quick, oh come quick! Rosy! It's Uncle Perry—oh, _hurry_!"

Both girls turned hurriedly as Sophie came tearing down through the garden, dignity cast aside momentarily, golden hair streaming out behind her. Aunt Elizabeth, peering out the kitchen window, saw her and nearly had a heart attack, thinking for a moment that it was Juliet Murray's ghost.

Rosy turned white and would have fallen had it not been for Marigold's strong arm holding her up. "He's dead—oh Mari, he's dead—I know he is—I know it!"

"Hush!" Marigold ordered through numb lips. "We don't know anything yet."

Sophie drew to a stop before them, gasping for air. "Sophie…what news?" Marigold finally whispered, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer.

Sophie began to laugh and cry all at once. "He's going to get better—the doctors say he's going to make it! Oh Rosy, he's going to be just fine!"

Rosy trembled—shook—and then performed the most graceful and unrehearsed swoon of her life. Marigold caught her just before she hit the ground.

"Oh no—have I killed her?" gasped Sophie.

Marigold looked up, tears of joy standing in her eyes. "No, she's just fainted. Run and get some water, quick!"

As the older girl did as she was bid, Marigold knelt beside Rosy's still body and chafed her wrists, a prayer of thankfulness singing in her heart the whole while.

* * *

Once Rosy recovered enough to walk to Hope Fulfilled, the three girls hurried back. Sylvia had received the news over the telephone, Sophie explained, and was standing by to hear more details. She hadn't waited to hear anything more; just bolted to find them as soon as soon as she'd heard that Uncle Perry was going to live. Murray had left too, but they didn't know where he had gone.

Sylvia was standing in the kitchen, one hand on the 'phone, when they walked in. She embraced the still-pale Rosy tremulously, silver tears shimmering in her eyes.

"What details?" Marigold demanded, not bothering to be polite. Sophie helped Rosy sit down at the wooden table as Sylvia answered.

"Last night he was just getting worse and worse. Aunt Ilse and Mother were there with him, but he was delirious and didn't even recognize them. Then, at the point when the doctors said one little thing would send him one way or the other, Mickey walked in with Charlie."

Rosy and Sophie gasped. Marigold simply smiled in delight. Trust Mickey to do the right thing at the right time!

"Charlie went over to Uncle Perry's bedside and said 'I'm sorry.' Apparently, that was all it took. Uncle Perry gave a little sigh, and his fever broke. He's been sleeping peacefully ever since, and the doctors say he should recover completely!"

Rosy buried her head in her arms and sobbed quietly. "How did Mickey find Charlie?" Sophie asked. "I thought he'd left on that ship."

Sylvia smiled proudly. "As soon as he heard about Charlie being missing, he went to Montreal. He knows the streets and back alleys better than Dad, and he knows a lot of the sailors there. He knew he'd have a better chance of finding Charlie. He searched day and night, and once he found him, he made him go to the hospital. Charlie was too ashamed to see his father, but Mickey wouldn't let up until he agreed."

Sophie was quiet for a moment, then smiled. "Sister, if my David weren't so wonderful, I'd envy you your sweetheart."

Sylvia blushed, but otherwise made no comment. In her eyes a proud light was shining. Marigold marveled at how she seemed to have grown from a dreamy, timid girl into a stately woman overnight.

Something about the happy scene pierced at her heart, and she turned and quietly slipped outside. She left the yard and wandered about Lofty John's bush for a little while, wondering at her sudden feelings of wistfulness. Was it simply because Rosy had her father back and she, Marigold, would never see hers? Or did it have to do with Sylvia's pride in Mickey? If she was honest with herself, Marigold had to admit that she envied her friend. Not that she was in love with Mickey, but she would so have loved to have someone to be proud in, someone to love and to love her in return, someone she could really respect and admire. She sighed.

"Oh well," she said. "Even if I never meet anyone like that, I'll have my work. I can be a happy, contented, respected woman, even if I never marry."

"Have you heard the news?" asked a male voice nearby.

Marigold turned to see Murray seated on a mossy stone, staring moodily at his long, white hands.

"I didn't see you there!" she laughed. "Yes, we heard. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes," he said emphatically.

Marigold surveyed him curiously. "Then why are you hidden away here, looking as though you've lost your best friend?"

"I've been thinking," he said. "When Sylvia told me about what Mickey did—how he put aside his own feelings and did that for the Millers—I was thoroughly ashamed. Mari, what have I ever done in my life like that? How can I ever expect to win—anyone's—heart, or be worthy of even attempting it, if I live my whole life shrinking away from unpleasantness and responsibility? I'll be seventeen in a few weeks, and I'm still a child in many ways."

Mari sat down next to him. "Murray, you think too much. You remember what we talked about a few days ago?" That conversation was blazoned in her memory because of the kiss that had followed it, but she wasn't sure if it had meant as much to him.

He nodded. "About not thinking so inward and focusing on others instead of myself?"

"Exactly." Marigold wondered if she was blushing, but forged ahead anyway. She couldn't believe she was giving advice to anyone, especially polished, poised Murray Kent, but he really seemed interested in what she had to say. She couldn't help but wonder if there were a particular girl whose heart he wanted to win, or if he was just using that as an example. If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that she would happily give him her heart. Still, she wanted a sweetheart who respected himself as much as she respected him, and right now, Murray was not that man.

She continued speaking. "Murray, you are kind and considerate, and always looking out for others. I'll never forget how you came to my rescue at the Christmas dance, and how you defended my honor on New Year's, and you've been such a wonderful, encouraging friend ever since. You truly care about people, and you have great insight into their souls. You just don't have much experience translating that caring into actions. You _are_ a good person. You just—don't always know how to show it."

Murray was silent for a long moment. Then he heaved a great sigh. "Marigold, you are the wisest person I know." He picked up her hand and held it in his, sending a thrill down her spine. "There's something I very much want to say to you—but I can't, not yet. I have to learn to be less selfish, to put others before myself, to think of how I can be of use instead of all the ways I can't be, before I can say this."

"I can wait," Marigold said demurely, her very soul thrilling at the hidden meaning in his deep eyes.

They smiled shyly at each other before getting up and meandering back to the house.


	14. Homecoming

Once Justice Miller was well enough to travel, the whole family came to the Island for a much-needed rest. Sophie, Sylvia, Marigold, and Rosy had a frenzy of house-cleaning, getting both the Kents' home and the Millers' ready for people. On the day of their arrival, Marigold would have stayed home, but Rosy—of all people!—insisted that she stay.

"If it weren't for your encouragement I would never had made it through this whole ordeal," she said, looking surprisingly sweet and fresh in a pink skirt and ivory sweater, with a jaunty little pink bow in her golden curls, and a face free of any kind of makeup. Marigold reflected that Rosy could _never_ look ordinary, but she liked the younger girl much better like this.

So it was the three girls and Murray who stood outside the Millers' house in the cool spring evening when the car pulled up. First out was Charlie, looking somehow younger and more subdued than Marigold remembered. She was pleased to find that no trace of the old thrill ran through her at all at the sight of him. Indeed, she found it hard to believe that she _ever_ had imagined herself in love with him.

Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Miller slipped out next, and then came Mickey and Mr. Kent, supporting Justice Miller between them. He looked very shaky, but his grey eyes were bright and pleased at the sight of his welcoming committee. Rosy gave one little cry at the sight of her father, and flew down the steps and into his arms. He looked surprised for a moment, but held her tenderly and stroked her hair with his free hand. Mickey caught Marigold's eye and winked. She grinned back.

Eventually the whole party moved up the steps and into the house, where Justice Miller was deposited on the sofa, with Rosy on one side, Mrs. Miller on the other, and a still-abashed Charlie at his feet.

"Well," he said in satisfaction. "I almost think it was worth nearly dying if it means a reception like this."

Mrs. Miller scowled, but even her voice was subdued as she answered. "Perry Miller, don't you ever joke about anything like that. If you hadn't gotten better"—her voice died away and she shuddered.

"But he didn't die, Ilse," Mrs. Kent said softly, her own arm around Sylvia. "Praise God, he got better, and all's as it should be."

" 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' " added Mr. Kent. He looked around at his children. "I think we'll be leaving you all together now."

Mrs. Miller got to her feet instantly. "Nonsense! After all you've done for us during this time, you can't just slink off home! You must stay for supper, of course." She went over to where Mickey and Marigold were standing side by side. "And you two as well. You're family now, just like Emily and Teddy and their fry."

Mickey smiled politely. "Thank you kindly, ma'am, but I'm afraid I must be off. I promised Miz Babcock I'd report in as soon as I got back."

"Come back and bring Mrs. Babcock and Miss Miranda over for dinner as well," said Justice Miller from the couch. "We owe them a great deal of thanks for lending you to us."

Mickey hesitated, then nodded. "So be it. Mari, are you coming with me?"

Before she could respond, Charlie sprang to his feet. "Please—may I?" His voice was rough and unsteady, but seemed more honest than the polished smoothness of its former tones. "I think it's time I start paying my dues around here."

"Go ahead, Mickey," Marigold said softly. "We can talk later."

The two young men started out down the road. Murray hesitated briefly, and then went after them, catching up with Charlie and speaking earnestly to him.

Mrs. Miller swung her gaze on Sylvia. "Darling child, I owe you the greatest of apologies. Not only should I have never interfered with your personal affairs, I completely misjudged your Mickey. He is—he is one of the finest people I've ever known or hope to meet." Her face crumpled. "If it weren't for him…"

Justice Miller cleared his throat. "There, there, Ilse."

Rosy got up and hugged her mother. "Don't cry, Mama. I think we've all done a lot of misjudging lately, but we've learned our lesson now." She flashed her brilliant smile around the room—at Sophie leaning her fair head on Mr. Kent's shoulder, at Sylvia and Mrs. Kent standing with their arms wrapped around each other's waists, looking almost like mirror images of each other, and finally at Marigold, standing awkwardly by the door. "I know I've certainly learned a new appreciation for my friends—and my family." She went back over to the couch and dropped a kiss on her father's forehead. "I love you, Dad."

Despite his weakness, Justice Miller wrapped his arms around his little girl and held her close. "I love you too, Rosy-posy."

Marigold blinked away a sudden stinging in her eyes and quickly went into the kitchen. She had a sudden longing for her mother, realizing with a shock that it had been nearly nine months since she had seen Lorraine or Cloud of Spruce. With all the changes in her life, she hadn't given much thought to her home lately, but a desire for it suddenly overwhelmed her.

* * *

That dinner was a huge success. Relief and joy made everyone quick to laughter and eager for fun. Mickey drew Marigold aside at one point and told her, his eyes shining until he looked positively handsome, that Mr. and Mrs. Kent had withdrawn all opposition to his courting Sylvia. They told him that he had more than proved his worth in what he did for the Millers, and they only hoped he could forgive them for their narrow-mindedness.

"Oh Mickey!" Marigold gasped. "Does that mean you'll stay here?"

He looked at her strangely. "Of course not! I still have to earn enough to support Sylvia. I'll be going off to sea this summer, and when I have enough, and she's old enough, I'll come back and marry her."

"But then…" Marigold started, confused.

He grinned lopsidedly. "But now I can write to her and visit her when my ship's in the area. And now I have hope, have something to work for."

Marigold hugged him. "Oh Mickey, I'm so happy for you."

Later that night, something happened that made her even happier. She was in the kitchen washing the dishes with Murray when Charlie sidled in. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Uh…Murray, could I have a moment with Marigold?"

Murray looked at Marigold. She nodded, her stomach tightening. "Very well," he said, his face unreadable. "Mari, I'll be right outside the door if you need me."

She flashed him a quick smile. "Thank you." She went on wiping dishes demurely, not looking at Charlie. She didn't really want to face him for fear she would lash out at him for all his irresponsible behavior, and she knew he didn't need that right now.

The silence in the kitchen thickened and deepened until it was almost palpable. Finally, Charlie spoke up pleadingly. "Marigold…will you at least look at me?"

She finished wiping the plate in her hand, set it gently on the counter, and turned to face him, her mouth closed resolutely. His grey eyes were anguished, and very real remorse was evident in his expression.

"I just wanted to say—I'm sorry," he said, his voice carrying none of the old polish and allure; it was simply gruff with genuine emotion. "I was a cad and a heel, and I should never have treated you the way I did. You—you're a real lady. I'd never met a girl like you before, and I didn't know how to treat you. Not that that's any excuse," he hurried on. "I _should_ have known. I—I never thought about anyone but myself before, and what I wanted. I know I don't have any right to ask for your forgiveness, but I just wanted you to know I really am sorry." He drew in a deep breath. "That's all." He turned to leave.

Marigold wrestled with her conscience for all of three seconds. "Charlie," she said sweetly.

He turned back, his expression wary. "Yes?"

"I forgive you," she said simply. "And I hope we can be friends."

A relieved smile broke across his face like sunshine breaking through the clouds. "I'd like that."

He left, and Murray came back in cautiously. "All right?" he asked seriously.

Marigold felt freer than she had for a long time. "Absolutely."

* * *

The evening passed all too quickly. Before everyone left the Millers to themselves, Justice Miller made an announcement.

"It seems that we've all learned an important lesson from all this fuss," he said. "And mine is that no honor or position is as important as my family, and no matter how successful I am in the world, if I'm not a good husband or father, I'm a failure. From now on, my family is my number one priority. Kids, from now on, I'm going to be a part of your life. I want to know what you're thinking and dreaming, and I want to be supportive of your dreams. For the rest of you, I know I don't have much experience in being a good father, so I'm going to rely on all you to keep me straight and give me advice. Are you in?"

"Completely," said Mrs. Kent, speaking for them all.

As they all headed out the door, Marigold heard Rosy say,

"So Dad, I want to go to the States and become a movie star. Will you support me?"

Marigold stifled a laugh, meeting Cousin Mira's twinkling eyes with a cheeky grin. No matter what the Millers did, they would always be amusing and unusual.


	15. Busy Summer Days

The months turned, and spring warmed slowly to summer. The Millers remained in Blair Water, Charlie taking a job as a clerk in Mr. Winter's law office in Shrewsbury, and Rosy preparing to leave in the fall for New York!—for her parents had agreed to let her train to become an actress.

In June, Mickey sailed away to "make his fortune," as he said with a cheeky grin. It was hard on both Sylvia and Marigold to see him leave, but Marigold was soon immersed in her medical studies, and the letters that began arriving from various ports around the world went a long way toward cheering Sylvia. She threw herself whole-heartedly into preparing to go to Queen's with Marigold—not that she had any real interest in higher education; she simply wanted to have something to do to keep busy, and a teacher's certificate wasn't a bad thing, either. Although Mickey was determined to support her once they were married (not that he had actually proposed yet—Mr. Kent had asked him to wait at least until she was eighteen), Sylvia wisely wanted to have a marketable skill of her own to fall back on.

Sophia and Christine also began preparing to leave for university. David still wasn't sure what _he_ wanted to do with his life, so he headed off to Charlottetown to see what opportunities a hard working young man could find there.

Everyone was busy with their lives, except Murray. He was fiercely determined to find something useful to do with his talents, but he didn't know what. What _could_ a writer do that would help others? Writing was such a private, inward affair, that it was hard to see how it could be used for the benefit of other people. He asked his mother, but she just told him that if writing was his passion, he must follow it. He spoke to his father, and Mr. Kent told him the same thing. Finally, he went to Mr. Morgan for advice.

The cheerful high school science teacher listened thoughtfully while Murray poured out his quandary. He let the young man talk himself raw, and then thought in silence for a little while.

"As it happens, Murray," he said at last, "I think I know of a place where you could be used."

"Really?" Murray asked eagerly. "Where?"

"Reverend Lawrence, the new Presbyterian minister in Shrewsbury, was just here last night telling me about a project he's eager to start. He likes to take bits from his sermons, his daily readings, anything inspirational he comes across, and write it down so that he can remember it later. Apparently, many people have asked if he would be willing to share those thoughts with others, in a devotional-book form. The only problem is that he's a terrible writer. He needs someone to take his ideas and work them up so that others can actually read them and gain something from them. Would you be up for the task?"

Murray was slightly taken aback. He hadn't been expecting such a concrete example right away. He was slightly disappointed—it seemed so _tame_. It certainly wasn't life-changing, or important, or grand. And he wouldn't even get credit for it! He'd be making somebody _else_ look good. The word "no" was hovering on the tip of his tongue, when Mr. Morgan, accurately interpreting his expression, spoke again.

"Of course, it all really depends on what you're truly searching for. If you're only interested in impressing people with your marvelous good deeds, then this obviously isn't for you. But if you truly want to do something good for others, something that _might_ actually bless someone else, then this at least is a good place to start. And who knows? If you succeed with this, other opportunities might be given. After all, 'To him who has, more shall be given.' What do you say?"

Murray's face was flushed. He _had_ been hoping to do something to impress Marigold—and others. But, he realized, that was an extremely shallow motive for helping people. He swallowed hard. "I'll do it."

Mr. Morgan beamed. "Good! I'll let Rev. Lawrence know and tell him to get in touch with you."

Murray stood. "Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure."

* * *

And so Murray, too, joined the forces of those working at something. Rev. Lawrence was a fairly young man himself, with high ideals and eager plans. He genuinely loved his God with all his heart, and desired to serve Him and His people as best he could. Every time they worked together, Murray came away inspired.

"It's odd," he confided to Marigold one warm day in late June. "When I started this, I only was doing it so that I could do something useful with my writing abilities. I wasn't thinking of getting anything out of it myself at all. And yet, I find that I'm the one who's being blessed here! I can tell that I'm growing and learning. Rev. Lawrence is such a brilliant man, and he had such humility. He never thinks about himself, but only about how he can serve God best. He's becoming my role model."

Marigold stooped to caress a delicate Lady's Slipper flower. " 'I would be the gladdest thing under the sun!' " she quoted dreamily. " 'I will touch a hundred flowers, and not pick one.' I am constantly amazed at how much my life has changed since moving here," she said in her normal tones, seemingly irrelevantly. "I was spineless and selfish—truly, I was—and I rarely thought about anything outside of my own little life. Then I met Aunt Edna—and Cousin Mira—and Mickey and all of you, and I just started growing and expanding until I don't even feel like a distant relation of the Marigold I used to be. I think that's what you're experiencing now, probably."

"Yes, exactly," Murray agreed eagerly. He sighed. "I can't believe you leave in two months."

"What will you do once we're all gone?" she asked him curiously.

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. I—I've been thinking…" he trailed off.

"What?"

He looked uncertain. "I haven't even told Sophie about this. Promise you won't laugh?"

"Never," Marigold assured him.

"Well, I've been thinking about going to divinity school."

"Murray, that's wonderful!" Marigold cried. "You would make a wonderful minister."

He laughed, suddenly feeling far more assured and confident, knowing Marigold supported him. "I'm not exactly sure if I want to be a minister—although it is a noble task—but there are many ways to serve God and people, and I'm interested in pursuing some of them. You don't think it's foolish?"

"Of course not," she said positively. "No more foolish than me becoming a doctor, or Sylvie a teacher, or anything else. Just"—

"What?"

She looked up at him shyly. "I was going to tell you to not give up on your writing, but I don't really think that's a problem."

"Never. No matter what else I may do in my life, I will always write. I could no more live without writing than I could without breathing."

Marigold sighed. "I'm so excited to be going to Queen's—and I'm happy that you're doing something with your life—and everything is turning out well—but just right now, I can't help but wish that this summer would never end."

"I know." Murray was silent for a moment. "No sense in regretting the inevitable. Let's just enjoy the time that we do have left."

Marigold laughed, her face lighting up until she looked remarkably like her namesake flower. "Yes indeed!"

She skipped off joyously, and Murray, watching the sun shine down on her lithe figure and soft hair, bringing out its golden highlights and warm coloring, was reminded of a poem by that great Irish playwright, Oscar Wilde.

" 'Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold  
Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun  
On the burnished disk of the marigold,  
Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun  
When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,  
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.' "

There was more to it, but for the moment, that was the only verse that mattered. He shivered a little at her beauty—a beauty that came as much from her sweet spirit and joyful soul as from her physical appearance. He cared very deeply for Marigold Lesley, and had ever since she first arrived in Blair Water. While part of him longed to tell her how he felt, he knew he was not yet worthy of the affection of such a girl as this. Someday, when he had purged the selfishness and weaknesses from his character, he would ask her to be his. For now, her friendship was gift enough.

She turned back, still laughing. "Come on!" she called. "How are we supposed to enjoy the summer if you're just standing there like a stick?"

He laughed back and ran to catch up with her. Side by side, they strode through the woods, happy in each other's company.

* * *

At the end of June, Sylvia went to Charlottetown for the Queen's Entrance exam. She was pale and nervous, but resolute. Marigold went down to the station to see her off, and her heart was wrung with sympathy for her friend.

"Oh Mari—if I fail!" Sylvia gasped just before boarding, clutching Marigold's hand convulsively. "I'll never be able to face myself again."

"You won't fail, dearest," Marigold reassured. "I was scared stiff when I took the exam, but I passed just fine."

"Yes, but you're so clever," Sylvia said, trembling. "I'm not—I'm fanciful and dreamy. I know I'll never be able to pass."

"Yes you will," Marigold said strongly. "Just remember that it's for Mickey. You'll do well, for his sake if nothing else."

That was all Sylvia needed to hear. She stood up straight. "I'll remember. Thank you, Mari. I'll see you in a week!"

After the train pulled out, Marigold dreamily began her walk back to Aunt Edna's. She was alone, for Sylvia had said her goodbyes to the rest of her family at the house. Only Marigold had accompanied her to the station.

As she walked along the quiet road, enjoying the warm sunshine and calm surroundings, she suddenly heard a wondering voice from behind her.

"Marigold?"

She turned to see a strange young man regarding her wonderingly. She frowned. He looked familiar—surely she knew those round blue eyes—that silky yellow hair—that wide, friendly mouth? Just as she was puzzling over it, he grinned.

"It _is_ you! Say, I haven't seen you in ages! What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

Then Marigold recognized him. "Billy!" she exclaimed. She laughed. "My goodness. It _has_ been a long time—not since that week we both spent at Aunt Min's."

Billy came over and gave her a brief hug. "That was some fun, wasn't it? I still laugh when I think over that synopsis I wrote—and how you forced me to confess to Aunt Min that we skipped church. You had some spunk. Say, I've never met another girl quite like you, you know."

Marigold blushed. This almost-cousin of hers had been her first boy friend. Even if he had led her into trouble, they'd had quite a bit of fun together for that one week they were both at Windyside. "What have you been doing with your life lately?" she now asked him companionably. Somehow, despite not having seen him for five years, she instantly felt comfortable around Billy. It was, she reflected, one of his charms.

"Traveling mostly," he answered, falling in beside her as she started walking again. "Once I finished school two years ago Dad decided to let me come along with him on his business trips. Say, I've been just about everywhere! South America and Africa and the States and India—we don't do much in Europe, though. Dad says things are in a rotten state over there. What about you?"

Marigold told him about staying with Aunt Edna and leaving for Queen's in the fall. He whistled.

"A doctor? Say, you _are_ ambitious! I bet you'll be swell, though. You always did know how to make a fellow feel better."

Marigold laughed again. "It's not as exciting as traveling all over the world, though. You must have had some marvelous adventures."

Billy shrugged. "A few. Tell you the truth, it gets kind of boring after a while. Dad always is busy, and he wants me to learn the business, so he keeps me with him and I never get to go out and explore like I want. I manage to have some fun, though." He winked at her. "We're in Blair Water just for a few days while Dad visits some old cronies."

As they walked along, laughing and talking, neither saw Murray Kent, hidden in the woods along the side of the road. He had decided to meet Marigold and walk back from the station with her. Along the way he'd gotten distracted by the beauty of the woods and a poem that was burning for completion. By the time he was ready to regain the road, Marigold and Billy had met up.

He knew he had no cause to be jealous, but there was still a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw the two of them, particularly whenever Marigold would laugh. Her golden tones were so warm and beautiful; it hurt to see them bestowed on someone else.

Waiting for her hadn't seemed so difficult when he didn't think there was anyone else in contention for her heart. Now, it was born on him with frightening swiftness that he had no guarantee that she wouldn't fall in love with anyone else while he was striving to become worthy of her. Even if this awkward looking young man wasn't her beau, while at Queen's she was bound to meet someone who was worthy of her love, and she would give her heart to him, and marry him, and never think of _him_, Murray, ever again.

He groaned out loud with the pain of it, and hurried away to hide his agony among the comforting trees and hidden glades of Lofty John's bush.


	16. A Golden Day

Marigold noticed a change in Murray after that day. She couldn't explain it—couldn't understand it—but there it was. He began putting distance between them, and no matter what she did she couldn't bridge the distance. She finally decided he was just brooding again (he did that whenever he had a new plot for a story in mind) and let it go.

On the bright side, Sylvia had passed her Entrance Exam fairly high up, and plans were going forth for both girls to leave for Charlottetown in September. A letter had come from Lorraine, asking oh, so piteously, if Marigold wouldn't at least come home in August so that they could see her before she left, but Marigold, although longing more than ever for Mother and Cloud of Spruce, had to refuse. It was simply too impractical to go all the way back to Harmony for only a week or two, and then leave again for Queen's. So it was decided that she would stay on at Misty Hollow, and not go back to Cloud of Spruce until the Christmas break.

"It seems ages away," Marigold sighed to Sylvia. "But then, a year seemed like forever when Mums told me I'd have to come here, and now it's almost passed like 'a watch in the night.' " She laughed and then sighed again.

"I can't imagine what this year would have been like without you," Sylvia responded dreamily, leaning her elbows on her open windowsill, her luminous eyes fixed on some distant point. "It doesn't seem possible that there was ever a time we were not friends."

Marigold got up from the low rocking chair and joined Sylvia at the window, putting her arm affectionately around the other girl's shoulders. "It's been a simply splendid year, despite all the troubles," she said. "I wouldn't trade any of my experiences—_any_, even the bad ones—for anything."

Thundering feet on the stair told them Rosy was coming. Sure enough, in a few moments the girl herself burst into Sylvia's room, her glittering hair disarrayed around her flushed face, her amber eyes gleaming strangely.

"Girls—oh girls!" she gasped.

"What is it?" they both cried.

Rosy waved a piece of paper triumphantly over her head. "In my hand," she declaimed dramatically, "I bear the future of Miss Rosy Miller, famous actress. It's an acceptance to drama school, girls! They've let me in!"

The other two squealed and threw their arms around her. The drama school to which Rosy had applied was very elite; although the Millers had gone ahead with plans for her to leave in the fall, nobody was positive she would be accepted.

Rosy beamed with pleasure. "Mama has bought me the most _gorgeous_ wardrobe to take. She doesn't want me looking provincial next to all those Yankee girls. Oh, I can't wait!"

"I'm thrilled for you," said Marigold. Her heart suddenly filled with lightness. "Isn't life marvelous, girls? Everything is working out just right! Sylvie and I leave for Queen's soon, and Rosy for New York, and Christine and Sophie for Toronto—we're all chasing our hearts' desire. And with determination and talent like ours, how can we not succeed?"

Sylvia's slow, sweet smile broke over her face. Infected by her companions' high spirits, she broke out into musical laughter. "Come girls, this calls for a celebration. A picnic in the woods is in order!"

Giggling merrily, they ran down the stairs and raided the kitchen for food. As it happened, David and Christine were over visiting Sophie and Murray, and eagerly agreed to the idea of a picnic. As the troupe was leaving, Charlie came up the walk. He had gotten out of work early.

Marigold, remembering her promise to be his friend, spoke up first. "Well, come along with us, then. It'll be the last picnic of the summer. It's only fitting that we all be there."

He smiled. "I could ask for nothing better."

The day was perfect, warm and sweet, with all the memories of a golden summer hovering in the soft air, the late flowers blooming beautifully, the trees decked out in their finest greens and yellows, as if putting on the final brave showing before autumn chills drew the life from their veins. Lofty John's bush echoed to jokes and chatter all afternoon. It truly was a picnic the Olympian gods themselves would have envied. Surely, no ambrosia ever tasted sweeter than their sandwiches and lemonade!

As the sun inexorably sank in the west, leaving a sky of fiery reds and deep purples, the party broke up, Charlie and Rosy back to their home, Sophie and Sylvia back to Hope Fulfilled, and the Morgans back to _their_ home. Marigold would have walked back to Misty Hollow on her own, but Murray, in his quiet, gentlemanly way, offered himself unobtrusively as an escort.

They walked in silence for quite a while. Misty Hollow, framed by the dark pines and highlighted by the flower gardens (Marigold had made sure to keep them up after Mickey left), was in view before Murray abruptly spoke.

"Marigold," he said with some desperateness. "I promised myself I wouldn't ask you this—not yet—but I can't let you go out of my life without knowing. Do you—could you ever—is it possible—do you think you could ever care for me?"

The blood was singing through Marigold's veins. She was glad the dusk hid her face as she answered demurely, "Yes, I think I could."

A huge sigh left her companion. "I don't deserve you—I know—and I won't ask you to make any promises yet. I know you have your future, too. But—I just had to know there was a chance for me." He stopped and turned to face her, gripping both her hands tightly. "I promise you, someday I will be worthy of you. When that day comes, I'll ask you—I'll ask you something else."

Marigold felt a choking feeling in her throat. Had she ever thought she was in love with Charlie? That weak, schoolgirl feeling was nothing compared to how she felt now. The intensity of her emotions almost frightened her, and she was so thankful for Murray's self-control. Had he asked her to go away to the moon with him right then, she didn't think she could have refused him. His humility and respect touched her deeply. It was just one of the many things that made her care so deeply for him. She felt that she ought to respond to his statement, but she didn't know what to say.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to require a response. His grip on her hands tightened for a moment, and then released. "In the meantime," he said in an almost-normal tone, "May I write you while you're at Queen's?"

"Yes, please do," Marigold answered, thankful of such a commonplace question to give her a chance to get her emotions back under control. "I'd love to hear all the happenings going on here."

"And you'll write me?"

"Yes."

Two simple sentences, yet to the speakers, they were fraught with meaning.

Murray left her at the gate of Misty Hollow. Marigold leaned on it and watched his back as he wended his way back down the lane. She shivered. Somehow, it didn't seem possible that only moments before her whole world had turned upside down. She tilted her head to gaze upon the last remnants of the sunset.

"I think you'd like him, Dad," she whispered. "He has humor—and strength—and character. And he's so sweet. But I promise, no matter what, I will become a doctor. I made a commitment to that, and no matter what I feel for anyone, I won't turn back."

She sighed and turned to go inside. It was her turn to cook supper, and she didn't want to be late.

In the west, the sun slipped completely below the horizon, leaving behind a faint chill. The summer was over.

**_The End_**


End file.
